Lovers and Liars
by Nightmare Prince
Summary: The war ended, but life didn't end with it, even though it sometimes felt like it had. It isn't an easy road for the survivors as they seek to heal their world. Despite everything they persevere, trying to find closure and happiness, but it's a tightrope that they walk - one that spans the gap between being a lover, or a liar. Then again, the best of us are the people who are both.
1. Pilot

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Pilot**

"Are you sure that you want to do this alone?"

She remained silent as she packed her suitcase, blinking away her irritation at his question. It had been weeks since she'd made the decision to leave, and yet, despite making it very clear that this was something she needed to do on her own, Ron had simply not let it go.

In a way, she understood where it was that he was coming from. He wanted her at his side, especially in the wake of the tragedy that his family had endured, but she needed her space. She needed to find her parents, and there was no telling where about in Australia they were, or even if they were still alive. There was no telling how long she'd be abroad, and she couldn't bring herself to pull her friends away from their lives to accompany her on the trip.

Above and beyond this, Hermione Granger needed to find herself, because whilst it was one thing to live through the war – she was finding that it was a very different concept altogether to survive the peace. She needed this time away from her reality in the same way that bread needed butter and the library needed books.

"I'm sure, Ron," she replied finally, once the pile of clothes from the bed had all disappeared into her suitcase. Zipping it shut, she looked over her shoulder and forced a smile to her lips, knowing full well that he was only trying to help.

"How long will you be gone for?"

"As long as it takes," she answered, tapping all but one of her bags with her wand, shrinking them down to the size of her nails before stuffing them into her coat pocket. "Australia is a huge place, and I don't think that I'll be coming back till I find my parents."

"Hermione." Ron's voice was low, and there was no mistaking the obvious tension in it. "I need you."

"You don't need me, Ron," she sighed, reaching out to cup his cheek, letting her thumb massage the bags beneath his eye. "I understand . . . believe me, I understand how you must be feeling right now, but this isn't healthy for either of us. You can't use me as a crutch to escape your grief, and I can't use you as an excuse to pretend that I'm OK. We need time apart, whether you're willing to see it or not, and if all goes well, then I'll be back before you even know I was gone."

"You've got it all figured out, don't you?" he groused, a resigned look crossing his features.

By way of answer, she rose up on her tiptoes and pecked him on the lips, the kiss deepening as his arms slid to the small of her back, his brow coming forward to touch her own. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting to admit in his tongue, but then all at once reality came slamming back into her and she drew away.

"I have to get going if I want to make my flight," she managed, grabbing the handle of her suitcase and dragging it behind her as she turned on her heel, feeling her heart sink as he fell into step beside her.

"I still can't believe you're travelling the Muggle way," he pointed out, each word punctuated by the thud of her trolley bag making its way down the stairs. "I'm sure it's a hell of a lot faster to take a Portkey."

"It'll make it easier to find my parents," she responded, the little white lie flitting from her lips like the most delicate of butterflies, and for once she was glad that his kind new so little about the Muggle world. She had fed Harry a lie of a different sort, one that he had easily believed, but with Ron and the other Weasleys it was just so much simpler to supply them with a minor mistruth.

After all, she truly did not want anyone coming after her, and it was so much easier to slip off the radar using Muggle transport than it was when travelling by magical means.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath, preparing to make her final farewells to the family that had over the years become as good as her own, when his hand grasped her shoulder.

"Shall I wait for you?" he asked, his tone uncertain. "When you do come back, will you be coming back to me, Hermione?"

She swallowed, feeling the knot in her throat tighten all the more, but she let the words tumble from her lips all the same, ignoring how with each syllable, her mouth ran dryer and his grip grew harsher.

"I love you, Ron. I've known you for seven years, and you've been one of my best-friends for all that time. But you've just lost your brother and you're mourning, and I don't want to be a coping mechanism for you. I lost my parents and I don't know if I'll be able to find them, so before I can even think about a romance, I need to search for them. You need to go out there, and you need to figure out what you're going to do _without me_ for a time, because while I honestly do love you, I need time to figure out if I'm in love with you."

"So I take it that that's a no?" He snorted, his grip finally growing slack as her final words sank in, and she felt the balustrade creak as he no doubt leaned against it. There was no denying that her words had invariably hurt him, but she would not make a promise that she was not sure she would keep.

After all, had they not already proven that prophecies were filled with double meanings, and that no man, or woman, could truly discern the future.

"It's an, _until we meet again_ ," she said finally, before leaving him alone on the rickety stairs.

 **.o0o.**

"I thought I'd find you here."

Her familiar voice broke him from his reverie, and he looked up with a tentative smile across his face, stifling a yawn as she settled down beside him on the bench. The morning was chilly, the crisp bite of cold in the air signifying the coming of autumn in ways that the falling leaves could not, but it wasn't the scenery that had brought him out this early.

No, it was simply the fact that he could not sleep that had led him to watching the dawn, savouring in the molten slash of red-gold as it burned across the horizon. There was no doubt that Mrs Weasley would soon be up and about, surrounding herself with the sizzling of sausages and eggs as she began her housework.

For now though, even if it was just to be a brief moment, he was content to be alone with Ginny.

"Really?" he asked, slipping his fingers over hers and linking them, a frown crossing his features as he felt her tense. She would be leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow, he knew, and he would be beginning his Auror training in two weeks – and whilst this told him that their relationship wouldn't be the easiest one, something about her expression was causing warning bells to resound in his ears.

"We need to talk, Harry," she said, ignoring his question, and deliberately slipping his fingers from her own before stuffing her hands into her pockets.

"That's never a good sign," he forced himself to chuckle, even as his gut seemed to twist in upon itself. Even someone as clueless as he was, and there were times when he could be more clueless than Ron, knew what came whenever someone mentioned those five words.

With a start, he realised that the tightening in his chest was born of guilt, rather than fear of having his relationship dissolve, because deep down, he actually felt a sense of burgeoning relief well up within him.

"That depends on how we choose to look at things," she replied, and echoed his toneless laugh, shivering slightly at the lingering chill that haunted the morning breeze.

"I think we should take some time apart, Harry. I've been reading what Rita Skeeter has been writing in the Daily Prophet, about me being with you because you're famous . . . and." She held up a hand to silence him when he made to interrupt, shaking her head as if to steel herself for what she was about to say, and Harry felt his frown deepen as her words began to sink in.

"And I can't help but feel that there may be some truth in it, because I've been in love with The Boy Who Lived since I was five years old, and I don't know if you're one I want, or if it's the Chosen One that was my first crush."

Her words were like a slap in the face to him, but the longer he sat there beside her in silence, the more he came to see from where it was that she was coming from.

"Rita's always been a vindictive sow," he said finally, "I don't believe what she's writing, and it isn't as though I'm the saviour that the media is making me out to be. I'm the same guy I was who asked your mother how to get onto the platform eight years ago."

"That's just it. You aren't the same, and neither am I. We grew up, Harry, we fought a war, and I think you know that we need some time apart as well. And maybe when I'm done with Hogwarts, and you're done with Auror training, we can try again."

"So this is the part where it gets all awkward between us, and we can't look at each other in the eye anymore, or even be as candid as we used to?" he asked, feeling the weight within his chest decrease exponentially.

"It doesn't have to be, not if we look at it as two friends getting back together rather than as a breakup."

"I could live with that," he said, leaning towards her and pressing his lips to her cheek, not missing the faint pink blush that began to colour her cheeks as he pulled away.

"You're going to have to," giggled Ginny, "Imagine what the Prophet would say if breaking up with me did what Voldemort couldn't, and killed you?"

He laughed, but his retort was cut off by Mrs Weasley's voice calling them in for breakfast, and with a final squeeze he got to his feet.

"I'll tell them you'll be there in a second," he said, nodding at her grateful smile before heading towards the kitchen. He had barely slipped in through the door when he heard Ginny's footsteps coming up the front stairs, but he didn't wait for her. Instead, he hurried across the room, accepting a glass of pumpkin juice from Mrs Weasley before sinking into his seat, his mouth watering at the spread before him.

The divine aroma of fried mushrooms and tomatoes, rashers of crispy bacon, and scrambled eggs invaded his nostrils as he helped himself, ignoring the strange looks being shot his way by both Ron and George. The latter seemed somewhat better that usual today, especially since he was drinking coffee instead of his usual Firewhiskey at breakfast, and the former seemed on the verge of saying something every time he looked up from his plate.

"For the love of Merlin and Morgana," snapped Ginny, just as Harry was about to look up and confront Ron about the constant stares. "We broke up, and it was mutual. Stop staring at us like we're House Elves, and you're representatives of SPEW."

"Yes, Ron, you can celebrate," added Harry, knowing full well by the expression on his best mate's face that Ron was very taken with this latest development. It had been a longstanding fact that the closest Harry had ever come to getting his friend's blessing had been: _Better Harry than some other bloke I don't know._

He wondered if Ron had any notion that now that he had broken up with Ginny, it meant that she'd be single whilst at Hogwarts this year. A low chuckle escaped his throat as he decided that maybe, just this once, he'd let Ron figure that one out on his own.

 **.o0o.**

The train pulled out of the station with a shriek of its siren, and he tumbled into the first empty compartment he could find, dragging his trunk behind him and trying his hardest to ignore the whispers that crept along the train.

He had heard the words that they spat in his wake though, and he schooled his face to be a mask of indifference. The tables seemed to have turned, and he found that there was a whole other perspective when you were the victim of persecution rather than the perpetrator.

Despite all this, he held his head high, and maintained a purposeful gaze out across the sprawling moors as the train snaked through the countryside, letting the jeers of people passing by the compartment slide off his shoulder like rainwater.

Because if he could survive the Dark Lord, there was no denying that he would survive a bit of taunting from those beneath him. Whilst the war had opened his eyes in more ways that he could have ever imagined, there was still no denying that some things, blood purity included, still held sway amongst the noble houses of Wizarding Britain.

Still, it was going to be a long, long year – and he was not foolish enough to assume that he would make it through unscathed. People would remember that he had fought under the Dark Mark, and even though several people knew that he and his mother had both helped Potter and his friends during the war . . . it was a honest fact that the world never really remembered your good deeds, especially when they were held against your sins.

"Draco, I didn't think to find you on the train," came a voice, and he looked up, a smirk curling across his lips as Blaise Zabini swaggered into the compartment. The tanned youth grinned down at him before sinking down onto the opposite seat, flicking his wand to levitate his trunk onto the shelf above.

"I thought you'd still be hiding under a rock in Italy," drawled Draco, leaning back into his seat, his eye twitching as a slew of venomous filth trickled in through the door, torn from the mouths of a pair of passing Ravenclaws. He wondered what they would have done had they been in his shoes, with a wand pressed to their mother's throat. If they were given the choice to watch their mother die, or to take the Dark Mark, he wondered how quickly they would kill each other to be first in line.

"Spare me, Draco," chuckled Blaise, "You know how Mother feels about tattoos. And a Zabini would never bow down to a halfblood, even one as powerful as the Dark Lord."

Draco bit back a retort, knowing that this was not the time to point out the flaws in Blaise's logic. As chance would have it, he was likely to be the only friend he would have this year, and it would be safer for him to have an ally at this point in time. The list of people who called his family their enemies grew with every passing day, and he doubted that any of the Hogwarts professors in particular would be quick to help him if he were in need.

He was sure, very sure, that him letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts would not be forgotten by them anytime soon.

Abruptly, he realised that Blaise was still talking and without letting his lapse of attention show, he diverted his gaze out the window, keeping his ears trained on the conversation at hand.

"I hear Crabbe went and got himself killed, the gormless gargoyle," continued Blaise, "And Mother tells me that Goyle's serving life in Azkaban, something about killing that Creevey brat? I suppose that means it's just going to be you, me and Theo in the dormitory this year?"

"Theo isn't coming back to Hogwarts," sneered Draco, stung at the offhanded manner in which Blaise dismissed Crabbe and Goyle's demise. Despite their denseness, he had been fond of them – and they had been his friends.

There was also the fact that only luck and chance had kept him from escaping their fates.

"So I guess it's going to be just you and me this year?" queried Blaise, raising an eyebrow, a smirk curling across his lips.

Draco opened his mouth to respond, when suddenly the compartment door slammed open and _she_ strode in, wheeling a designer trolley bag behind her. A stream of acrid smoke trailed from her scarlet-painted lips, and without warning she flicked the cigarette at their feet, the ash scattering across their shoes as she sank into the seat next to Draco. Running a finger through the sable curtain of her hair, she smirked, whilst tapping the floor with her pencil thin heels.

Despite all of this, there was simply no denying that her face was eerily similar to that of a pug.

"Don't forget about me," she said, a simpering giggle escaping her lips. "Daddy insists that I return to this pit, and how lucky that I'll have you two to entertain me since none of the other girls are coming."

"Oh Merlin, no," breathed Blaise under his breath, and Draco stifled a cough before finally having the sense to snuff out the still smoking fag with his shoe.

"Pansy," he muttered, sighing as she extended a perfectly manicured middle finger at Blaise.

It was definitely going to be a long year.

 **.o0o.**

 _ **Sneak Peak into the Next Chapter:**_

" _Merlin, am I supposed to be partnered with you till Christmas?" exclaimed Draco, not even bothering to conceal the horror in his voice._

 _She smiled at him, the absurd radishes hanging from her ears seeming more and more normal when held against the necklace of Butterbeer corks slung around her neck. Not at all perturbed by the obvious rudeness in his tone, she stuck out a somewhat grubby hand. There was a slimy, greenish onion between her fingers, and he winced bodily when he realised that she expected him to take it._

" _You should keep this with you," she said by way of answer, her voice dripping with whimsy. "It keeps away the Wrackspurts, and frankly, you're covered in them."_

* * *

 **A/N: Reviews Are Love** **I am planning on biweekly updates, on perhaps Wednesday and Saturdays for this story.**

 **I'll be doing away with the Epilogue from Deathly Hallows for this story, and there will be multiple pairings involved. I have several arcs planned for this, but for now all I can say is it's going to encompass the lives of Harry Potter characters from the time after the war and will go on to Next-Gen (and who knows, it could go even further), eventually. Thank you all for reading ;)**


	2. Chance Encounters

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Beauty Lies Within**

It burned like hellfire, but it was heaven.

The Firewhiskey flowed down his parched throat, the excess dribbling down his chin as he hiccupped, pushing the empty bottle aside as he stumbled to his feet. His desk was cluttered, piled high with order forms and bills, banking statements and blueprints for new products; and each and every one of these scraps of parchment was covered with a thick coat of dust.

It had been months since he'd last been to his apartment, but he couldn't remain at the Burrow any longer. The family home was much too empty now and he had opted to leave rather than face his mother's weary sighs.

He had to be strong for her and leave her nest, because he knew that it killed her to see him so broken.

Tottering across his room, his vision blurred and the room swimming around him, he toppled forwards into his bed, his temple narrowly missing being knocked against the bedside table. Bile rose up in his throat, a trickle of it escaping his lips as he fought down the rest, not wanting to make a mess of the sheets that he'd have to sleep on that night. It wasn't easy, considering how empty his stomach was, but he somehow managed it before rolling over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling.

It was white and covered in scorch marks, each sooty stain a memory of another experiment with Fred. There was one near the door, large and circular, from when they had created the first prototype of their punching telescopes. Beside it was another, a smaller, darker mark that was grey with age, created by one of their first ever Decoy Detonators.

Everything about this place was a reminder of his brother.

There was stubble on his cheeks, and the only reason that it wasn't a fully fledged tangle of red hair was that his brothers had taken to helping him shave over the months. It wasn't that he couldn't do it himself . . . it was just that he couldn't bear to look in the mirror, because he would be seeing Fred.

He knew that this wasn't what Fred would have wanted, and somehow it hurt him even more that he was disappointing his brother's memory by letting his grief eat away at him. He couldn't help it, for the anguish gnawed at him like the many heads of a hydra, and no matter how many heads he cut off, two more would grow to assault him.

Weasley Wizard Wheezes hadn't been opened in months – in fact, the shop itself was still in shambles from when the Death Eaters had come for his brother and him. He remembered it as though it were yesterday, the screams of curses and the shattering of glass in the dead of night.

 _He woke, his heart thudding in his throat, his eyes flaring open as he rolled out of bed, and then staggered whilst trying to regain his balance. It was one of those repercussions of losing an ear that he hadn't been aware of until he had needed to move quickly, or run, or even fly – his balance and sense of co-ordination was shot to hell._

" _George," Fred yelled, bursting into the room, looking absurd with his hair sticking up on one end, dressed in his pyjamas with his wand in one hand and a broom in the other. "Wake up, tosser, the bleeding Death Eaters are here."_

 _He staggered to his feet, groping about his bedside table for his wand, suddenly freezing as the first breath of acrid smoke invaded his nostrils. Years of designing products for his shop had made that particular stench very familiar to him, and he felt sweat bead along his brow, just as he felt rage begin to bubble up in his chest._

 _The shop was on fire._

" _Don't even think about it," barked Fred, catching a glimpse of the expression George wore, "There're too many of them."_

" _They're going to burn the place to the ground, Freddie!" he exploded, summoning his broomstick to his hand even as he spoke._

" _I know," sighed Fred, "But we're no good to anyone, let alone the shop, if we're dead!"_

 _Sensing the truth of his brother's words, he nodded, and grasped Fred's hands just as the bedroom door was blasted off its hinges. The suffocating blackness of Apparition engulfed him, just as he heard a piercing shriek of anger rip through the space that he had just vacated._

 _When his feet hit the ground, he stumbled, unable to stand as the world swam around him, but then he felt a pair of arms hook under his own, holding him up, and a reassuring voice spoke into his ear._

" _I've got you, Your Holey-ness."_

His eye flared open, and his hand flew to his aching chest – he hadn't even realised he had fallen to sleep till he had woken from the dream. Something else had woken him though, the sharp rapping of knuckles against wood, which he dismissed because surely nobody would have been knocking on his door at this hour. The sour taste of vomit clung to his tongue and with disgust he realised that he had thrown up in his sleep.

Groaning, he got to his feet, intent to take a shower and then open another bottle of Firewhiskey, but he stumbled forward, the world swimming and his temples throbbing, his face crashing onto the floor. He groaned as he grasped for the wall, or anything that would support him, till at last he was back on his feet and staggering towards the bathroom.

There was nobody left to catch him when he fell.

George Weasley had never been alone, not even whilst he'd been in his mother's womb, and he didn't know if he could live when the best part of him was gone.

 **.o0o.**

"I'll take it," said Harry, picking up the quill and signing the contract before the agent could finish speaking. It was a Saturday, and whilst most people his age were enjoying the rare autumn sun, he was delighting in becoming the owner of a three bedroom, two bathroom apartment in Kensington, London.

Unknown to Mrs Weasley, who would likely have a fit if she knew he was planning on striking out on his own, he had been spending the past few weeks since his breakup with Ginny searching for a place to call his own.

Whilst he did had inherited and currently owned two properties – his ruined babyhood home in Godric's Hollow, and Number Twelve Grimmauld Place – neither home was quite what he was looking for at this point in his life. Financially, purchasing the apartment was well within his means, and now all he needed to do was break the news to the Weasleys and hope Molly wouldn't be too upset.

"I think a celebration is in order," said the estate agent, Penelope Clearwater, with a broad smile on her face. Flagging down a waitress, she placed an order for champagne, whilst Harry fought to control his own grin. He could understand her excitement – the price of this apartment ensured that she would earn quite a high commission.

"The permits from the Ministry to connect your new house to the Floo Network among other things, shouldn't take more than a month to come through. I'll be filing for them tomorrow when I'm at the Ministry," said Penelope as the ice-bucket of champagne arrived at their table.

"But they won't be denied, right?" asked Harry, his elation dying down somewhat when he realised that there was still a chance that since his new home was in Muggle London, there was still a chance that certain magical facilities may not be permitted.

"I wouldn't worry about that," she chuckled, "You're Harry Potter. Nobody at the Ministry is going to deny you anything, let alone something as trivial as a Floo connection."

Several flutes of champagne later, Penelope had left, stating that she had an apartment with another client that afternoon. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to shop for new furniture – or failing that, get himself a decorator to do the furnishings for him – he got to his feet, wincing as a passing woman suddenly stepped on his foot, her heel nearly stabbing through his sneaker.

Holding back the urge to grab his foot in his hand and hop around a little, he cursed below his breath, and, eyes watering, found himself face to face with Cho Chang.

"Oh Merlin, Harry," she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry."

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of the situation that he found amusing, or maybe it was that his foot hurt so much that he wasn't thinking clearly, but he couldn't contain the laughter that burst from his lips at the scene.

Gasping for breath, his folder of paperwork clasped in his left hand, he sank back into his seat.

"It's a small world, isn't it?" asked Harry, finally recovering from being _almost-stabbed_ in the foot.

"It is," she replied with a smile, still flushing. He hadn't seen her in months, and if anything, she had become far hotter than when he had briefly – and disastrously – gone out with her in his Fifth Year. Her sleek hair had been curled, framing her exotic face in a cascade of sable ringlets, and her cheeks were tinted a pale rouge. Dressed to kill in an elegant black dress with thin straps (Harry remembered Hermione once telling him that they were called macaroni straps . . . or something along those lines) over her shoulder, and her murderous heels gave her half a head's worth of height on him.

"You here alone?" he asked, after a moment, feeling his cheeks burn as he noticed her full cleavage.

"I'm actually here on a date," she replied, effortlessly crushing any hopes that he had briefly entertained with a single sentence. "He's outside parking the car. I told him that's what the valets are for, but I swear it's easier to get a guy to let you ride his broomstick than drive his car."

"Well, I was just leaving," he said, in what he hoped was a suave tone of voice, getting to his feet once again and avoiding putting too much weight on his mangled foot. "It was nice seeing you again."

"It was," she responded with a smile. "Though if all goes well with this date, I'll probably be seeing a lot more of you."

"Really, and why's that?"

"I'll let you work it out, Harry." She winked, giving him a quick hug before walking towards the bar, obviously waiting for her mystery date. Still puzzling over her cryptic words, he stepped out onto the sidewalk, stuffing his hands into his pockets and began walking towards a nearby alley from which he could Apparate.

"Harry!" a gruff voice called, and he turned, eyes widening in surprise as he caught sight of a rather portly man coming up behind him, dressed in a suit that looked several sizes too small. The man extended a hand, which he shook, and he finally responded with a shocked:

"Dudley? What are you doing here?"

"Was just parking the car actually," claimed Dudley. Harry blanched, the rest of his cousin's words becoming a buzzing in his ear as only one sentence resounded through his mind.

 _Well, this is interesting._

Closely followed by.

 _Blimey, it's finally that cold day in hell when Dudley got something that I had first._

 **.o0o.**

There was already a bustling crowd in the lobby of St. Mungo's when he arrived, but thankfully, after a short conversation with the attractive blonde sitting behind the reception desk, he was able to pass through without waiting in line. It was a strange feeling to be honest, but he found that he quite liked being famous . . . and of course, using his fame for his benefit now and then.

The blonde had been quite eager to help him out once she had realised he was Ron Weasley. Looking back at the steadily growing queue of people in need of a Healer, he realised that he could get quite accustomed to being treated with the privileges that came with being a war hero.

It was good to be renowned for something other than being the best friend of somebody famous, especially since the spotlight was now his own, and he didn't need to share it with anyone.

Hurrying up the steps two at a time, because he really didn't have much time till he had to return to the Auror office, he didn't stop till he reached the sixth floor. The only reason he had stopped by was to pick up his mother's prescription for her, so as to save her a trip to London. Since the Battle, his mother had been plagued by nightmares . . . and only a vial of Draught of Dreamless Sleep could keep her sleeping through the night.

Finally reaching the hospital apothecary, he pushed open the door and gasped as he walked into something tall and lanky, sending him sprawling backwards onto his butt. Looking up, his ears tinged red, he bit back his crossness when he saw who it was.

"Didn't Mum ever teach you to look where you're going?" asked Percy, equally as red faced as he got to his feet.

"You bumped into me," protested Ron, not at all happy to have run into this particular brother.

Percy simply raised an eyebrow, just like he had when they were younger and Ron had been in the wrong, and it took all of his effort not to rub that expression of his elder brother's face.

Perhaps sensing the hostility, his brother cleared his throat and asked, "Can we talk? I haven't seen you in a while, Ron."

"I only have fifteen minutes till I have to get back to the office," insisted Ron hurriedly, but Percy reached out a hand and clapped it onto his shoulder when he made to push past him.

"Ron, please."

"Make it quick," he grumbled, stepping aside so that he was standing against the wall and not blocking the door. Percy moved to stand beside him, looking out the window instead of at him. A few minutes of silence followed, till finally he cleared his throat again and asked:

"How's George?"

"I haven't seen him in a while," Ron answered honestly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "He made it clear to us he wants to be alone before he left."

"I went by to the shop the other day," Percy said, "He wouldn't let me in. I . . . I think he blames me for Fred."

Dumbfounded, Ron stared at his brother, eyes widening till they were larger than an owl's, and it was with a start that he had never heard his brother sound so . . . so broken, for want of a better word. For once, Percy seemed almost as human as the rest of them, and not like the haughty stickler for rules and authority he had always been.

"Rookwood killed our brother, not you," he responded finally.

"But you were there, Ron. I distracted Fred with that joke. He probably didn't have time to defend himself from that explosion because of me," pressed Percy.

"Rookwood killed our brother," repeated Ron, "Not you. It's the Death Eater's fault that he's dead, it's Voldemort's fault." Percy winced bodily at the sound of the Dark Lord's name, but Ron continued regardless. "George . . . George is grieving, Perce, he isn't himself. If it makes you feel any better, he threw Bill out about a week ago, and slammed the door in my face when I went to his flat. Give him his space."

Percy looked at him for a long moment. "When did you grow up?" he finally asked, and Ron shook his head, a faint grin teasing at the edges.

"Around the same time you were being a Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron," he replied, "Now I have to run, or Robards will have my head."

"He is a bit of a hard arse," chuckled Percy, promptly shaking his hand before turning on his heel and leaving. "And Ron," he called over his shoulder, "Thanks."

A low frown crossed Ron's face as he opened the apothecary door, this time being careful not to walk into anyone again. He hadn't thought to ask why Percy had been at the hospital at this part of the day – which was rather strange considering his brother usually ate in his office and worked through his breaks. Glancing at his watch and realising that he had just six minutes left to get back to the office, he hurried over to the counter and placed the prescription order on the table.

The Medi-Witch on the other side looked up to him, eyes widening slightly before hastily picking up the parchment and reading it. Her eyes widened even further when reading the prescription, but Ron didn't think much of her strange behaviour. It was obvious to him that she was just a little surprised to be meeting a war hero.

"It'll take me a moment to collect everything on this list," she said with a smile, getting to her feet.

The brunette witch disappeared into the backroom, where no doubt most of the potions were stored, and Ron took the time to glance around the Apothecary. His attention soon fell upon a vase of fresh roses, petals still damp with dew, and he was about to lean over the counter to read the little note attached when the woman returned with his mother's potions.

Thanking her, he left, taking only a moment to glance at the returned order, signed and dated.

Reading the bottom of the script which the Medi-Witch had just filled out, he found that her name was Audrey Clarke.

 **.o0o.**

"Today we will be beginning work on an incredibly rare and potent potion known as Amor Seco Essence," droned Slughorn, causing Draco to sigh with boredom as his quick-notes quill jotted down all that the pot-bellied professor was saying.

There were only two other Slytherins in this class, both of whom weren't exceedingly fond of him because of his mother's part in the Dark Lord's downfall. He found it amusing, though, that a pair of creatures with such questionable blood status would dare think themselves superior to a Malfoy . . . but for the moment he saw no reason to explain to him how things worked in Slytherin.

Besides, he was already threading a very fine line, and Headmistress McGonagall had been very clear that he would be chucked out if so much as a whiff of trouble from him reached her nose.

"Amor Seco Essence is a potion that allows a person to have clear sight, so to speak, because it allows a person to see through lies and enchantments, even those that they tell to themselves," intoned Slughorn, finally succeeding in catching Draco's attention.

This potion seemed too good to be true.

"Now, the making of this potion will serve as one part of your class mark for Potions, the other being the written test you will all take in February. Since Amor Seco Essence is a fairly complex brew, you will be making it in groups of two – and you will be given three months to make it."

Slughorn had barely finished speaking as the class began partnering up. He watched sullenly from his seat, knowing full well how this game was going to be played, and that he was most likely going to be partnered up with whoever was left over. Nobody would willingly choose to be his partner, he knew.

He wished that Blaise or Pansy had deigned to take potions in their final year, but neither had expressed any desire in carrying the subject past OWL level. Deciding to sit patiently until some unlucky soul was sentenced to be his partner for the project, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Abruptly, he was interrupted by a hand tapping his shoulder, and he opened one eye to see who it was. There was a distinct air of familiar dottiness about the girl in front of him, but most of all it was startling to see her of all people willingly come up to him.

She had, after all, last made his acquaintance whilst being held as a prisoner in his cellar.

"You look rather lonely," she said, and he nearly fell out of his chair at the nonchalant statement. When he didn't respond for a good five minutes, she continued, "Professor Slughorn asked me to be your potions partner and I agreed."

"Merlin, am I supposed to be partnered with you till Christmas?" exclaimed Draco, not even bothering to conceal the horror in his voice. He had been fully ready to take on a partner who hated him, one who would do their utmost to make his life hell for the foreseeable future, but never had he expected to be saddled with Luna Lovegood. There was always something unsettling about her, as if she could see right through your every facade, and she was by far the most eccentric pureblood he had ever met.

She smiled at him, the absurd radishes hanging from her ears seeming more and more normal when held against the necklace of Butterbeer corks slung around her neck. Not at all perturbed by the obvious rudeness in his tone, she stuck out a somewhat grubby hand. There was a slimy, greenish onion between her fingers, and he winced bodily when he realised that she expected him to take it.

"You should keep this with you," she said by way of answer, her voice dripping with whimsy. "It keeps away the Wrackspurts, and frankly, you're covered in them."

He looked at her for a long moment, feeling his left eye twitch, before scoffing and extending a hard to accept the foul tuber. It was disgusting, there was no doubt, but Lovegood had willingly chosen to be his partner when she could have had her pick of any other person in the class because of her role in the war.

"Thanks," he said begrudgingly, depositing the thing behind his cauldron and flicking his wand to clean his fingers. "Now what exactly is a Wrackspurt?"

As she launched into a speech that she had probably given to a dozen different people or more, Draco scooted along the bench to let her set her stuff down on his desk, and made sure to look as though he was paying attention.

If she was willing to give him a second chance – as a person who had spent nearly two months as a prisoner in his basement – then he would welcome the chance.

 **.o0o.**

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

 _"George, open the bloody door before I blast it off its hinges," she yelled, slamming her palm against the wood._

 _The door flew open and she recoiled at the unshaven man standing before her. There were dark rings beneath his bloodshot eyes, and he was in need of both a haircut and a shower. The stale stench of vomit and liquor hit her then, and she took a step back before folding her arms and raising an eyebrow._

 _"Oliver will kill you himself if you miss his wedding," snapped Angelina, "So let's get you ready."_

* * *

 **A/N: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. You guys are awesome**


	3. The Bride

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **The Bride**

The sand was hot beneath her feet as she walked across the beach, her teal sarong fluttering around her in the salty sea breeze. A broad brimmed hat threw her face into shadow, protecting it from the harsh rays of the late afternoon sun.

It had been a week since she'd left England, and apart from leasing a motel room to use as a base of operations, she was no closer to finding her parents than she had been when she first arrived. True, Australia was a rather large place, but she had assumed that she would have been able to at least discover which state they were living in.

She had quickly realised that her thoughts on recovering her parents had been little more than fantasies, the true severity of her task only striking when her flight had touched down at the airport. It was true that she had sent her parents to Australia in order to protect them, but there was no telling where they had gone once they had arrived here. For all she knew, Wendell and Monica Wilkins, as her parents were now known as, could be in New Zealand, or India, or even Antarctica.

A strong part of her mind knew that she was merely exaggerating the circumstances, but another part was filled with doubts.

It had only been a week, and already she was beginning to wonder if she would ever see them again.

Then again, maybe this meeting with Kingsley's contact would prove useful. If she was to have any hope at all of finding her parents and restoring their memories, then there was no doubt that she would need assistance.

Something that was easier said than done, considering the fact that she had been the one to remove her parent's memories. Kingsley had been quite clear with her when she had discussed his trip with her – using magic on Muggles was forbidden worldwide, and her actions were not only a violation of the laws of Wizarding Britain, but of the International Statue of Secrecy itself.

Kingsley could turn a blind eye, and Harry and the Weasleys could help her bury her actions due to the accentuating circumstances, but that was it. Hermione knew that, for good or ill, she could not look for help at the Australian Ministry of Magic.

The rising tide tickled her toes and she gasped, realising that time had flown by whilst she had been lost in her musings. Hastily she began to walk up to the pier, grains of sand sticking to the soaked hem of her sarong, deciding to await the evening tide there. It was not like she had much else to do back at her motel room, and she could not deny that she was enjoying the Australian weather.

There seemed to already be someone waiting at the end of the pier, but dismissing him as just another surfer, she strode forward to lean against the railings, feeling the salt spray against her cheeks.

"Hello, Sheila," called the man, and he stepped towards her, causing her to dip her fingers into her bag and tighten them around her wand. He seemed harmless enough for a Muggle, but the pier was deserted save for the two of them, and she would rather be safe than sorry.

"Can I help you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as he came up beside her, the sunlight glistening across his water speckled chest, toned and tanned to perfection. His dirty blond hair fell in messy waves to his ears, half-hiding his boyish blue eyes.

"Well, Sheila, I was under the impression that it was you who needed help," he replied with a lazy grin, winking cheekily, and she became acutely aware of the jagged scars running across his forearm.

"What gave you that idea?"

"I don't know, maybe it was the owl that popped up from old Kings while I was at a barbie with my mates. And before you stick that wand up my arse and ask for some sort of confirmation, I have the letter right here in my pocket." He shrugged, appearing amused at the way her eyes widened. Brow creased so that her eyebrows met in the middle, she took him in for a second time, her fingers closing around the scrap of paper he offered her, skimming over the words before tapping it with her wand to check for Kingsley's magical signature.

It wasn't really her fault that the appearance of Kingsley's contact had thrown her. She had expected him to be like Kingsley, calm and reassuring, with a hearty chuckle and an old soul.

The only word she could think of to describe this man was _cool._

And that was not a word that formed part of Hermione Granger's vocabulary, thank you very much.

"I take it that I'm not what you were expecting, Miss Granger?" he asked, the laughter in his eyes never seeming to dim.

"That's an understatement," she said, "When Kingsley said he had a friend in Queensland, I didn't expect . . . well this." She gestured at him for good measure, making sure to point out the neon coloured board shorts and the flip flops.

"Well, Sheila," he retorted, "based on what I've been told, you're exactly what I pictured . . . Except for having your nose buried in a book that is."

Protectively tightening her hold on her bag and making sure that it was closed enough so that he could not see the novel within, she turned to face him fully, and she extended her hand in greeting.

"Hermione Granger," she said with a smile, "And if you ever call me Sheila again, your reproductive abilities are going to be seriously damaged."

"Shawn Taylors," he replied, flashing her a toothy grin. "And I'm flattered that you're thinking of my reproductive abilities after just five minutes."

She stuttered, wondering if her face had ever been redder in her life.

 **.o0o.**

"George, open the bloody door before I blast it off its hinges," she yelled, slamming her palm against the wood.

He flung open the door and watched her recoil at the sight of him, unshaven, dark rings beneath his bloodshot eyes, and he painfully aware that he was in need of both a haircut and a shower. The stale stench of vomit and liquor wafted past him, and she took a step back before folding her arms and raising an eyebrow.

"Oliver will kill you himself if you miss his wedding," snapped Angelina, "So let's get you ready."

"I don't care about Oliver's bloody wedding," he barked, stumbling slightly and leaning against the wall for support. His balance was wobbly at the best of times, and on a morning like this when there was more alcohol in his veins than there was blood, he needed all the support he could get.

She surprised him by pushing her way into the flat, and inwardly he thanked the fact that the main entrance was in the alley between this property and the next, thus sparing Angelina the need of having to trudge through the ruins of his shop. The other door, the one that led down into Weasley Wizard Wheezes, was blocked away beneath his cabinet, and that was how it was going to stay.

"Merlin, George," she exclaimed as he staggered back in, swearing beneath his breath as he caught sight of her horrified gaze skimming his living room. He did not need her damn judgement right now, no more than he needed her sympathy.

He just needed her, and the entire world, to leave him alone.

"How are you ev–" she caught herself, wrinkling her nose and turning towards him. "You know what, why don't you go take a shower while I clean up over here?"

"Piss off," he muttered, grasping for the nearby half-empty bottle of Odgen's Spiced Mead and bringing it to his dry lips, fighting the urge to moan as the amber liquid burned its way down his throat.

Within seconds he was on the floor, dazed, the room spinning around him. Vaguely, he was aware of the shards of glass falling around him, and the ringing in his ear as, wide-eyed, he looked up at Angelina standing with her wand aimed at him.

"You could have killed me!" he shrieked, clawing his way up and tottering on the soles of his feet as his equilibrium shifted. Heart racing, he made sure to watch where it was that he stepped, eyeing the jagged fragments of his bottle warily.

"I thought that was what you wanted? At least then you'll see Fred again, right? And he can tell you how disgusted he is that you're wasting away instead of living," she questioned, her nostrils flaring as she folded her arms and stared him down like the lioness she was. He glared at her, the subconscious comparison his mind had made nagging at him until it struck him like a punch in the gut.

He was a lion too, but he had forgotten how to be brave. Each and every one of her comments cut him like knives, tearing away his crutches and sobering him faster than a bowl of ice water. It was cruel and he hated her for laying it all out on the table, for reminding him of what he had forced himself to ignore for so long.

But it was something that he needed to hear.

"I'll go take that shower," he choked meekly, turning away from her and flicking his wand to summon his towel and a set of clothes before stumbling towards the bathroom.

The water was scalding against his skin, but unlike the poisonous burn of the liquor, this was a good burn. It melted away the stiffness in his bones, and the physical aches of his joints and muscles, exposing the raw pain within. He would go to the wedding, and he would smile as though he were happy. He would laugh and joke, and he would raise a glass to his friend and former captain.

Because wasn't that what Fred would want him to do?

He stepped out of the shower refreshed, and still dripping, he walked towards his sink, not looking away as he came closer and closer to the mirror. Finally, he wiped his palm across the cool surface, and for the first time in months he stared at his own reflection.

A familiar stranger looked back at him, but he didn't look away as he searched along the cabinet for a razor blade. He didn't turn away as he brought the razor to his throat.

And he didn't look away as he ran it along his skin, not bothering to use any form of cream or gel, preferring to feel the faint burn as strands of ginger floated down into the basin. Beads of blood blossomed every so often, in the places where the razor nicked him, but he continued cutting it all away till he was looking at himself.

"I'm not going to let you down any longer, Freddie," he murmured, and he got dressed, tossing his towel onto an overflowing laundry basket and heading back into his living room.

Angelina was waiting for him, sitting on a clean couch, and it was evident that she had been busy whilst he was showering. The room was sparkling, light streaming in through the open windows, empty bottles vanished away. She opened her mouth but he held up a hand to silence her.

"I'll come to the wedding," he said, "Not for me, but for Fred."

She nodded and rose to her feet, preparing to take her leave, but he stopped her, closing his hand around her shoulder.

"Thanks, Angie," he added, "I really needed that."

"You're welcome," she replied, "And you'd better not be late, or Katie will smack you with a Beater's bat.

 **.o0o.**

The ceremony had ended by the time he arrived, but it was something that could not have been helped. Auror training was as brutal as it was gruelling, and Harry was quickly realising why it was that so few people chose this particular career path.

The reception was in full swing when he arrived, and ignoring the stares, he quickly made his way towards the table where the newlyweds were seated. It was quite a mission though, what with the veritable army of wedding guests seemingly determined to shake his hand and congratulate him – quite a few of them gazing up at him as though he were some sort of deity.

In fact, he found it somewhat unsettling, as though he were a rare beast at a zoo.

After what felt like an hour of shaking hands and hugging strangers, he finally found himself standing behind Oliver, and grinned as he tapped his former captain on the shoulder.

"Harry!" exclaimed Katie, being the first to turn around and catch sight of him. He couldn't help but gawk at her as she rose to her feet, mainly due to the fact that he couldn't believe that this was the Katie Bell he had known for eight years now.

She looked absolutely radiant, and it was impossible to associate her with the memories of the Chaser who was fond of wearing her hair in a tight ponytail, clad in Quidditch gear with more sweat than makeup.

"Congratulations," he said, leaning forward to give her an awkward one-armed hug before being yanked into a manly embrace by Oliver. "Both of you."

"Thanks, Harry," said Oliver with a grin, "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show."

"As if I'd miss the day Oliver Wood married the enemy," he replied, laughing as Katie smacked him upside the head in mock annoyance. It was no secret that whilst Oliver was the Keeper for Puddlemere United, his new wife was the star Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons . . . which Harry assumed with lead to an interesting relationship given their competitive natures.

"I've been getting Quaffles by him for years," teased Katie, "What makes you think that's going to change now that I'm his wife." At that she grabbed her husband, the first beats of a slow melody beginning to echo across the tent as she dragged him onto the dance floor. "It was nice seeing you again, Harry," she called as they disappeared into the crowd of dancers.

He grinned, chuckling as he took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped at the sparkling liquids. Realising that his current proximity to the dance floor was quite dangerous given his two left feet, he decided it best to beat a hasty retreat, not stopping till he finally reached the bar.

"Odgen's on the rocks," he said as he settled back into the swivel chair, shifting uncomfortably as he began to notice the stares once more. It had helped that he had been moving earlier, but now he was stationary, and it was perfectly obvious to him that half the guests had their eyes fixed on him.

Deciding to ignore them, he sipped at his drink and began scanning the room for familiar faces. Within minutes his eyes fell on Percy, looking rather uncomfortable as Alicia Spinnet led him in what appeared to be a waltz. Stifling a laugh at the best man and maid of honour, his gaze travelled to Ron, whom appeared to be deep in conversation with Lavender Brown.

"Avoiding the fan-girls?" asked a voice and he turned his head, gulping at the sight of her slender, black-haired beauty straddling the bar stool beside him. He opened his mouth to offer up some witty response, but his mouth and throat were as dry as bone, and hastily he brought his cup back to his lips and drank.

"Rebecca Erilson," he finally managed, hoping his voice was as suave as he envisioned it to be. After all, one did not get to meet Quidditch legends every day, especially Beaters as gorgeous and talented as she was. "I'm a huge fan," he added, inwardly cursing himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Seriously?" she muttered, raising a perfectly sculptured eyebrow and rolling her eyes. "The Chosen One who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is nervous around me."

"Have you seen yourself?" retorted Harry before he could stop himself, his face blanching of colour, but she just giggled and set down her drink.

"I'm just a normal girl," she simpered, "You seemed pretty close to the bride and groom, and they're both professional Quidditch players like me."

"That's different," he countered, "I've known Katie and Oliver since First Year. You I just met"

"You knew me as well back then." She shrugged coyly. "You even flew against me, dodged a few of my Bludgers too. You were eleven though, and I was in my NEWT year, but that does imply we've known each other just as long."

"I guess it does," he agreed, freezing as he felt her hand on his thigh.

"So I hear you ride a Firebolt," she breezed, shifting so that her barstool was all the closer to his. She signalled for another drink, and her hand trailed just a little higher as she awaited his answer.

"I used to," he choked, "Lost it during the war."

"That sucks," she continued, "Myself I ride a _Starfyre_ , they don't have the speed of the Firebolt, but they're sturdier and have more control."

"That's interesting." His heart thumped in his chest, his pants feeling uncomfortably tight as she leaned in, her breath ghosting along his cheek.

"Your place or mine?" she whispered.

"Mine," he almost yelled, flicking a Galleon into the tip jar and taking her hand, ignoring the camera flashes aimed his way as the suffocating blackness of Apparition overcame him, Rebecca's hands on his waist in an extremely suggestive manner.

 **.o0o.**

 **In the Next Chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _How was class?" asked Draco, reclining in the dark leather armchair, his homework discarded across the table._

" _People are still treating me like some sort of pariah, if that's what you mean," replied Blaise, collapsing into the nearby loveseat and dumping his book bag to the side._

" _Honestly, Draco's the only one of us who actually had the Dark Mark," snapped Pansy, sinking into the seat beside Blaise. "Why does the rabble insist on calling us all Death Eaters?"_

" _Yeah, why do they?" said a voice, and all three of them turned to find a trip of fourth year girls standing, arms folded, and glaring at them. "You three are obviously little traitors, according to my mummy," continued the one in the centre._

" _Excuse me boys," said Pansy, getting to her feet. "I think I need to go take out the thrash."_

* * *

 _ **A/n: Thank you all for the great reviews, it really means a lot to me xD. Also, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**_


	4. One and the Same

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **One and the Same**

Harry woke and stretched out an arm, but the other half of his bed was cold.

He sighed, because truly the fault was his for daring to believe that today with be any different from the others, that she wouldn't have snuck out in the dead of night. It was strange – she would show up late at night, nearly always an hour after he was done with his training for the day, and then it would be writhing limbs, sweet moans, and his lips would never leave hers till he eventually fell asleep.

Then, when he woke, she'd be gone and he'd be left wondering if it was perhaps something he had done.

Girls didn't usually behave in such a manner, did they? He'd known Hermione for years, and provided she wasn't the most normal of females, but he doubted she would be behaving like his. Hell, he wouldn't even expect something like this from Luna, and she was known for eccentricity.

Stifling a groan, he rolled out of bed and went about his morning routine, rubbing the sleep from his eyes the entire time. He was exhausted. It was painfully obvious that Robards was making the Auror Training Programme as difficult as it could possibly be and then some.

Harry was beginning to think that Robards was feeling rather sour about how several of them had been granted permission to join the Aurors without having to write their NEWTs. He understood that it must seem like a slap in the face to have to work hard for something and then have someone else achieve the same without putting in the same effort, but for the love of Merlin, he had fought a war.

And killed a Dark Lord . . . it wouldn't do to forget that, and he doubted Robards, for all of his accomplishments, have ever slain one of those.

Hopping down the stairs, he stifled a yawn before flicking his wand at the kitchen to start getting breakfast ready. The aroma of sizzling sausages soon filled the room, and with a low growl, his stomach led him towards the stove.

Breakfast was rushed, as usual, because of the realization that once again he was running late. No matter how early he woke, he was generally so drained come the morning from having to balance his work life with his slowly diminishing social life that he lagged and usually ended up at the office with just minutes to spare.

The coffee scalded his throat on the way down, and he was already halfway into the fireplace when he noticed the vial of vibrant blue potion on his mantle, accompanied with a scrap of parchment. Frowning, he picked up the note, his eyebrows raised as he skimmed over the looping handwriting.

 _Noticed you were looking really burned out last night. Take three drops of this in your morning coffee, and you'll be right as rain._

 _-Becca_

His frown deepened as he cautiously sniffed at the potion, noticing the strong tang of mint and the electric blue sparks that shot out of the vial. He was pretty certain that it wasn't poison, because what reason would an internationally famous Quidditch star have to murder him. Then again, he had made a fair few enemies within the local Death Eater community and they did have deep pockets. . .

The ticking off the clock echoed in his ears, a stark reminder that he had little under five minutes to get to the Ministry and then race down several floors to the Auror office, and he made up his mind. Without another thought, he let a single drop fall onto his tongue and run down his throat, cutting the dosage since he'd already had his coffee.

He perked up almost immediately, feeling a buzz of energy race through his veins, and without another thought he took the Floo to the Ministry, hitting the ground running, and weaving his way through the crowd of Ministry workers in the atrium.

He arrived at the Auror Division with just five seconds to spare, according to the large clock set up in the main hall, and thankfully Robards was nowhere to be seen. Surprised that he was not in the least bit out of breath, Harry allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief as he made his way towards the training rooms.

"Cutting it a bit close, mate," commented Ron, falling into step beside him. Harry started, having not realised his best friend was in the room.

"I'm on time, aren't I?" he replied.

"Barely," said Ron, rolling his eyes, "You're lucky Pierce called in sick. You know how she is when we're late to her training simulations." Harry sighed, understanding full well that Auror Pierce, although not much older than he was, was one of the few women in the world who could match Professor McGonagall in terms of strictness.

Harry felt that it was perhaps a good thing that Pierce was a graduate of Beauxbatons, simply because he had a feeling she would not have gotten along with Hogwarts very well.

"Does that mean we have the morning free?" he asked, somewhat hopefully.

"You're joking, right?" Ron groaned. "Robards wants us all in the gym in the next fifteen minutes. We've got Savage co-ordinating."

"I hope you're prepared to take a few punches," Harry replied, already wincing at the thought of Savage's combat training, which usually involved more broken bones than there were trainees.

It was going to be a long day . . . as usual.

 **.o0o.**

Ron groaned as he dragged himself into the Leaky Cauldron, half-walking and half-hobbling. Every part of his body ached from Savage's combat training regime and he wondered, not for the first time, where it was that Harry had learned to hit that hard.

Merlin, his best mate was scrawny, but he could throw a mean right hook.

He'd need to change his training partners for future exercises . . .

"Ron, mate," called a voice, and he grumbled in response as he made his way towards the booth where Neville was sitting. Perhaps he could train with Neville. On second thoughts, he'd seen Neville spending more time using the gym facilities than Harry and he combined; so maybe that wasn't the best idea, especially seeing as his friend was slowly but steadily bulking up.

"Neville, why do look so happy?" Ron scowled, sighing as he sank into the booth and his weight was finally taken off his feet. A low moan of relief followed the sigh, though his scowl returned when he heard Neville chuckle by way of response.

"Harry did that to you?" The incredulity in Neville's voice did not go unnoticed and he was sorely tempted to remind the other man of their first training session, during which Neville had underestimated Padma Patil and gotten his balls kicked in.

"Some of it," said Ron, "Most of the damage came from slipping off that climbing rope."

Neville winced sympathetically before flagging a waitress, and then said, "Muggle please-men have things called pea-lice academies for their law enforcement to train in. The Ministry should invest in one, because it's sort of embarrassing for us to be doing our training in front of the experienced blokes who can knock us flat on our arses in about two seconds."

"There are only six of us, Neville," said Ron. "Kingsley probably isn't going to build a pea-lice academy for so few of us."

"Yeah, I know," he grunted. "It's just an idea though."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, a slightly-plump blonde who looked no older than they were. Ron stared at her, certain that he'd seen her before, but not sure as to where. There was a strong sense of familiarity about her and he was sure that once he'd realised who she was, he'd kick himself for not seeing it sooner.

"Hannah, I didn't know you worked here," said Neville with a warm smile – and Ron indeed knew that had his leg not been about to fall off, he'd be kicking himself.

How could he forget a person that he'd known in passing for six years?

"Yeah, I thought you'd have gone back to Hogwarts," interjected Ron.

"Too many bad memories," she replied with a wan smile. "What can I get you boys?"

"I'll have a White Rat double on the rocks with ice," said Neville. Ron felt his jaw threaten to drop as he, for perhaps the first time, looked at him and realised that his friend had come a long way from the bumbling lad he had been in their first year. Hell, even he threaded lightly when it came to White Rat Whisky – it did, after all, contain extracts from the fires of Norwegian Ridgebacks.

"Odgen's for me, thanks," he added when Hannah turned to him. She nodded, just about to leave when a two more voices chimed in.

"Elderflower wine, Hannah," said Padma, slipping into the booth beside Neville and shrugging off her coat.

"Same as Ron," said Terry Boot, wincing as he sat down, his neck already purpling under a fresh crop of bruises. A quick glance at Padma revealed that she was sporting similar injuries, and for a brief moment Ron allowed himself to feel sorry for her. As the only girl amongst the six of them training to be Aurors, she didn't have other girls to train with.

That being said, she had proven early on that she could go toe-to-toe with the best of them, and that she was a force of nature that could not be stopped.

"Fancy seeing you two here," Ron said once Hannah had left.

"Tomorrow's our first day off since we started," replied Padma. "I wanted to stay home and just sleep for the next twenty-four hours –"

"And I didn't want to spend the first night that I don't have to worry about getting up early in our flat listening to this one snore," interrupted Terry. Laughter exploded across the table, when suddenly Terry winced, the pained expression on his face making it clear that his shin had just been kicked.

"So where's Harry?" asked Neville. Before Ron could respond, a steel tray floated down onto the centre of the table, laden with their drinks. He watched, somewhat slack-jawed, as Padma threw hers back before Terry or he had even reached theirs and tapped her glass with her fingers, signalling for a refill.

As the glass magically filled with the lilac coloured wine, he replied, "He's with Erilson."

"I don't blame him." Terry grinned. "Though I still don't understand how he managed to bag a Quidditch goddess like her."

"Men," scoffed Padma, with a glimmer of teasing in her eyes, "I can't believe I'm going to be stuck with you three till I retire."

"You know you love us, Pads." Terry winked, and Ron and Neville laughed when the distinct sound of a shin getting kicked was heard.

The Auror Office was small, truth be told, but what it lacked in numbers it more than made up for in camaraderie and friendship, Ron decided.

 **.o0o.**

During the months that she had so far spent in Australia, Hermione had learned many things that she had not previously known. The concepts she picked up on at first seemed trivial but as she resigned herself to the knowledge that finding her parents was going to be a marathon and not a sprint, she found that these little things held a lot more weight that she had originally perceived.

For one, her skin burned rather quickly in the harsh Australian sun which was far hotter than any place she had ever visited before. She had travelled to several other European countries with her parents over the years and despite having spent many summers at the beach, the sunlight there was nothing compared to what it was here.

It had taken a rather nasty sunburn to make her aware of this development, and she had since taken to using a brand of sunscreen that was certain to keep even Malfoy from burning.

The second was something a lot more selfish, and yet she couldn't help but feel relieved to not always be picking up after Harry and Ron. They were her best friends, that could never be denied, but a part of her enjoyed her current distance from them.

"What are you plotting about now?" asked Shawn, startling her out of her musings. The sounds of Muggles on their way began to filter into her ears, punctuated by the low clamour of the other patrons. Thankfully, most of the cafe was relatively empty courtesy of the early hour coupled with the fact that nobody really had the time to sit down and enjoy their morning espresso.

"Nothing," she chuckled, a slight smile creasing her face. "Just thinking."

"Doesn't look like nothing," he replied, nibbling at a slice of toast slathered in vegemite.

"How can you even eat that stuff?" she asked. It was a diversion – and a fairly weak one, truth be told – but he simply raised an eyebrow and let it go. It was one of the things that she liked about him as a friend, that he was perceptive enough to not press the issue. Shawn also happened to be quite easy on the eyes . . .

But no, she could not let herself go there.

Especially seeing as he was singlehandedly responsible for every bit of information regarding the whereabouts of her parents they had unearthed so far, she could not risk alienating him as a friend with a romance that would no doubt eventually turn sour.

"You're doing it again, Sheila" he pointed out, snapping his fingers for good measure and she stifled the urge to scream at her absentmindedness. The late nights were starting to become taxing and as Shawn dug up more paperwork and records from his Muggle contacts – whom, she had learned, it was best not to ask questions about – she spent more and more of the night-time hours poring over them.

"Don't call me Sheila," she snapped, but there was no edge to her voice. Like the constant burning sun, him referring to her as Sheila had grown on her.

She still found it annoying, but in the same way she found Ron stuffing his face with food annoying.

Abruptly, she shook herself internally. There was no way in hell that she could allow herself to make comparisons between Shawn and Ron. That was a boundary that she could not cross . . . she could not go there.

"These breakfast brainstorming meetings were your idea, you know," said Shawn, once again breaking her out of her internal monologue – she was beginning to think there was some truth in what Harry always said about her overthinking things to ridiculous extremes. "But if you're just going to daydream during them, I could use the hour of sleep."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I'm a little out of it today."

"I can tell." He smiled and she felt a small part of her melt. Damn him and his perfect white teeth and lazy smile and tanned skin, she cursed in her mind. And his friendly nature, sweet personality and perfect body . . . her treacherous brain added as an afterthought.

Obviously, she concluded, the Australian heat was slowly baking her brain and she was losing her mental faculties one by one.

"Did you turn up anything new?" she asked, once again turning the topic away from her.

"There are fifty-seven households under the name of Wilkins in Brisbane," he answered, "I have the files at my place."

"I'll pick them up tonight," replied Hermione, "I've got to move to my new motel anyway."

"It's ridiculous that you've been in Australia for months but you're still living in motels."

"I'm not about to buy a place here," she pointed out, "And none of the rentals I've seen are places I could see myself in for such a long period of time."

"The last motel you stayed in had rats." Shawn's eyes twinkled as he spoke, and she had to bring her coffee to her lips to hide her blush. Why did he do this to her with such small things? She saw him just about three times a week and he was helping her find her parents. She knew his name and that Kingsley trusted him – but that was it.

And yet, Shawn Taylors somehow managed to bring butterflies to her stomach whenever he spoke.

"Why do you think I'm moving to a new one?"

"Why don't you just come stay at my place?" he asked, "I do have a spare room and it ain't like I'm a serial killer or anything."

 _No, Hermione! No! Say no!_

"I really couldn't impose," she said slowly.

"It's not an imposition at all," he responded, "Besides, it'd make the search a lot easier if we were in the same place."

 _That sounds reason– Dammit, Hermione. Stop thinking with your lady parts and say no!_

"I suppose if you insist." She grinned, somewhat nervously, but his smile never faltered – which led her, since they would now be living together – to ask the question she had not wanted to ask for fear of getting to close or else not liking the answer.

"I do."

"I'll be paying you."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"I have three younger siblings, Sheila. I can do this all day and still win."

 **.o0o.**

Draco gnawed at his lip as he puzzled over his homework, taking full advantage of his free period. Ordinarily he'd be doing his work in the evenings after dinner, mostly because he always worked better at night when it was quiet and free of interruption, but as of late most of his evenings had been spent with one Luna Lovegood.

Naturally, this also meant he regularly wanted to tear out his hair as they worked over their potions project. Amor Seco was a complicated potion to brew on a good day and what with the limited time in potions periods, Slughorn had decided to use one of the smaller, unused dungeon classrooms for their assignment so they could come and go as they please.

Despite the infuriating nature of having to work with somebody like Luna, who had absolutely no filter and was brutally honest in all that she said, as well as being terrifyingly intuitive, Draco couldn't help but look forward to their sessions together. She was perhaps the first person in his life who treated him like a normal person, as an equal for just being human rather than having the same blood status as she did.

It was . . . nice.

Giving up his homework as a bad job and deciding to do it tomorrow, he was just about to get up and leave, perhaps to go for a fly around the Quidditch Pitch a few times, when Blaise emerged from the entrance passage, looking harangued. The source of his irritation soon followed in the form of Pansy, her features wreathed in smoke.

He wondered if she woke up every morning and decided to be a bigger bitch than she had been the day before. It would make the most sense really, and even though she was one of the few people he would call a friend, she was also one of the most toxic people he knew.

"How was class?" asked Draco, reclining in the dark leather armchair, his discarded homework being utilised as a footrest.

"People are still treating me like some sort of pariah, if that's what you mean," replied Blaise, collapsing into the nearby loveseat and dumping his book bag to the side.

"Honestly, Draco's the only one of us who actually had the Dark Mark," snapped Pansy, sinking into the seat beside Blaise. "Why does the rabble insist on calling us all Death Eaters?"

"Yeah, why do they?" said a voice, and all three of them turned to find a trio of fourth year girls standing, arms folded, and glaring at them. "You three are obviously little traitors, according to my mummy," continued the one in the centre.

"Excuse me boys," said Pansy, getting to her feet. "I think I need to go take out the thrash."

"I'd slap the three of you but animal abuse is a crime," she continued, as Blaise and he looked on, fighting the urge not to chuckle. The girls had blanched, all but the one leading that is, and it Draco took a sick pleasure in watching them squirm beneath Pansy's razor sharp tongue.

"Now listen here, you skinny little bitches," Pansy hissed, the common room falling silent as everyone turned to stare. "Neither you, nor your whore of a mother, knows fuck all about what went down during the war. I buried a brother, an uncle, and two of my friends; you little shit, while your mother was passing herself around the Death Eater meetings like a cigarette. Don't you come up to me, you little tramp Selwyn, and call me a traitor, because I may not have stood for that fucking noseless albino and I may not have taken the Mark, but I fought for my family, while your family was whoring themselves out just to get a little bit of power."

The girls fled, Selwyn remaining a moment longer than her friends before turning tail under Pansy's rage. Pansy's chest heaved and it was evident from her every movement that she was still possessed with anger, but before she could move to follow them Blaise was on his feet and was guiding her back to the couches.

"What are you lot looking at?" yelled Draco as Pansy brought a fresh cigarette to her lips, touching the tip with her wand to light it. The acrid fumes filled the air almost instantly but Draco didn't even think to complain as he cast a filtering charm to get rid of the smoke as it left her quivering lips.

Like clockwork, the common room began to return to normal, and half the cigarette was gone before he dared speak. He had after all learned from experience to never prod at Pansy when she was still in the "red-zone."

"You OK, Pansy?" he finally asked, cringing slightly under her glare.

"I'm fine," she snipped. He noticed, and perhaps this was something that he had been oblivious to for a long time, but Pansy seemed to be relaxing, slowly but surely, with Blaise's arm around her shoulders.

It was a new development to him that his friends may be on the verge of becoming romantically involved, especially considering his own past with Pansy, but something told him that they might just be the right match for each other. Blaise, calm and relaxed about all that life threw their way, was the perfect partner to temper Pansy's rages.

Matchmaking aside, he couldn't help but wonder why Pansy had exploded at that girl's comment. It was nothing new for them, being hated in the aftermath of the war, especially those who saw them as dark rather than grey.

"They don't know what we went through, Pansy," he said cautiously.

"No, they don't fucking know," she snapped, "But they still talk as if they do, as if they could do any better. We tortured people, we were tortured, we saw the people we loved die, and then it's over, but it's never really over. Because they'll never forget that we were on the side that did all those horrible things, just like they'll never remember that we were forced to do what we did."

"Then we'll make them remember, right?" said Blaise, and Draco nodded because even though he had never seen her so vulnerable, so on the verge of tears . . . it reminded him that she was human, and that he was human.

And that they, even though they had supported Vol – Volde – Voldemort, were still undeniably, irrevocably human . . .

 **.o0o.**

 ** _Next, on Lovers and Liars_**

"You're wearing glamours," said Ron, running his thumb along her smooth cheek and feeling the raised scars that ran beneath the illusion.

"I don't want you to see me with my scars," she replied softly, looking away, her voice low and anxious. "I don't want you to see how ugly I really am."

"Those scars just remind me of how strong you are," he said, "because you survived the monster that gave them to you.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I am so sorry about this late update, life is just throwing me a lot of curveballs right now. A bit thank you to everyone who had read and reviewed so far though, because you all are awesome, and I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading._**

 ** _Till next chapter xD_**

 ** _-Shane_**


	5. Silk and Secrets

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Silk and Secrets**

The sun hadn't yet risen when he dragged himself out of bed that morning, yawning and leaning on the walls to maintain his balance. The sky glowing indigo in the pre-dawn hours of the morning, he shaved, showered and prepared to face the day, fighting the desire to curl back into his bed with every minute that passed him by.

By the time the first rays of morning light had pierced his kitchen window, he was already dressed in his most ratty sneakers, oldest pair of jeans, and the most worn T-shirt in his drawer. There was no denying that it was difficult to avoid the allure of the unopened bottled of Firewhisky sitting on top of the fridge, but he nevertheless stared it down over his morning coffee.

His stomach filled with actual breakfast for the first time in ages, he flicked his wand to move aside the large cupboard he had backed against the inner doors – the ones which led to the fire-gutted shell of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, and with a deep breath, opened the door and began making his way down the stairs.

The place was a ruin. Walls, once painted vibrant shades of maroon were caked in soot and scorch marks, with chunks of plaster torn away so that the walls looked as though they were made of rotten Swiss cheese. He stood ankle deep in ash and debris, the hardwood floors burned away, just as the remaining pieces of plush carpeting seemed oddly spongy, covered in mildew and mold. The glass store fronts were gone, shards scattered throughout the floor, though no light came through the heavy tarps erected to keep out unwelcome eyes.

It filled him with rage to see this place that he and his brother had worked so hard and so long to build reduced to this state. Reaching out, his teeth gritted together, he inspected one of the few shelves still standing to see if it were salvageable.

It crumbled away beneath his touch, and he let out a roar of frustration. He would have to begin from scratch, but he had both the gold and a large amount of stock (both at the Burrow and in the storage room of his flat upstairs) to achieve this.

No, what stabbed at him was that he'd have to start from the bottom _alone_.

Fred had been one of the pillars that had held up their dream and together they had been two halves of the same whole. Without his twin, was it even worth rebuilding?

The answer came to him then as he stood within the broken dream. It was worth rebuilding for Fred, if not for himself. It had always been his brother's dream, and his own, to make people laugh. The war may be over, but there was still precious little to laugh about and enjoy as people mourned and tried to fix that which was beyond repair.

If he could, through his work and his products, make just one person laugh and for even a minute forget the pain of losing someone that they loved, then Weasley Wizard Wheezes would be worth it.

"Time to let in the light," he said to himself, raising his wand and flicking it at the tarps. The morning sun streamed into the store, glinting off the shards of glass and crystal, and people walking down Diagon Alley turned and stared.

He forced a smile to his lips as he moved his wand again, conjuring and driving four iron poles into the ground. A second swish conjured a roll of maroon and mustard striped tape to surround the storefront. With a final flourish he erected a large sign which read: _Reconstruction in Progress_ , before turning back to gaze around the interior.

He considered raising his wand to simply vanish the mess before pausing, realising that he didn't want to simply cast a spell and move on with his life. He bent over, ignoring the slight dizziness that came with the movement and the stiffness in his legs as they protested, and began feeling about the ash for something solid.

George's fingers closed around a piece of metal, just a tiny, deformed fragment that was so warped that he could not even determine its origin. He sighed before tapping the shrapnel with his wand, transfiguring it into a large, very therapeutic sledgehammer.

The sudden shift in weight nearly bowled him over, but he flung out an arm and steadied himself against the wall, adjusting so that he could heft the tool without losing his balance. It was much harder, considering the minor disability brought about from his lack of an ear, but it was nothing that he couldn't handle.

Realization that he was out of shape slammed into him as he tested the hammer in his arms, feeling the oddly refreshing feeling of his muscles straining below the light layer of flab that had taken up residence over his arms. A quick look down confirmed his suspicions – his jeans, though old, were tighter than he remembered them, and he distinctly remembered not having a minor paunch before the battle.

It appeared that all the jokes he had heard about alcoholics and beer weight were quite true, and this did not make him in the least bit happy.

Deciding that he could kill two birds with one stone, George Weasley lifted the sledgehammer and slammed it against the rickety shelves with all his might, feeling a faint satisfaction from breaking down the old fixtures.

The sun rose to its apex as he worked on the demolition, slowly but surely breaking down the bitter memories of the past and replacing them with hope of a brighter future. Shelves and counters, wall panelling and plaster, warped light fixtures and even the cracked porcelain from the bathroom soon found themselves amidst the growing pile of rubble behind his store, just waiting to be vanished once he was done.

George may be beginning from scratch, but he was determine to build bigger and better than ever before . . . for Fred.

 **.o0o.**

When he woke up that morning, rolling out of bed and swearing under his breath at the time, he never expected to find Becca calmly sitting in his living room. It was so unexpected that he almost passed her by on his way to work, not even noticing her on his loveseat as he sipped at his morning tea, complete with three drops of her mysterious elixir.

"This is new," he commented, pausing in midstride and slowly turning to face her. She looked good considering she had been up hours before him, not even the barest hint of a bag beneath her eyes. In fact, she looked as though she had gotten a complete eight hours, something he knew wasn't true based on the hour or two in which they had been fooling around.

He really enjoyed that her years of Quidditch training had left her fit and agile enough to pull off so many positions. Well, in all fairness, she was the ones teaching him these positions, so he truly wasn't aware as to how many they had managed to accomplish so far.

They had broken some sort of record though, he was fairly certain of that.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, smiling, "Witch Weekly is doing some kind of fashion launch party tonight and I somehow got an invite. You wanna be my plus one?"

"Not really," she replied cordially, her tone making it sound as though they were discussing a business arrangement and nothing more. Swirling a scarlet-painted nail across her jaw, she gestured for him to take a seat, and although he felt rather confused as to what was going on, he sat.

"What's on your mind, Becca?" he asked, gingerly tapping his feet as he glanced at his watch. The metal pressed coolly against his skin as he waited for her to speak, the ticking rhythmic against his veins, the slightly dented base digging in ever-so-slightly.

If he left in the next five minutes, he'd just make it with a second or two to spare. Harry couldn't really count on Auror Pierce calling in sick again today, especially considering that the woman was practically a dragon. Even germs usually feared getting to close to her, lest she incinerate them with a glare.

"I think it's time we called an end to our arrangement," she said, still in that calm and collected tone that she'd so mastered. He stared at her, flabbergasted, jaw almost hanging slack. He had thought they were doing well in their strange romance; that they had been in a good place.

Harry had had no idea that he would be waking up to another break-up when we had closed his eyes, sated after hours of writing limbs and frenzied kisses.

"Come again?" he asked after a moment, certain that she was pulling some sort of trick on him. After all, she herself had said that he was Harry Potter, and that no girl in their right mind would pass him up . . . what exactly had happened to that statement, he wondered as he stared at her.

"We're over," she said in a more patronising tone.

"But why?"

"Truth be told, I'm bored, and I want to see other people." She shrugged. "We've had fun for a couple of months, and you're a great shag, but I'm ready to find my next great shag, if you understand my meaning."

"I'm sorry, but did you just say you're throwing out our whole relationship just because you're bored of the sex?" Harry scowled, folding his arms and gritting his teeth at her. Sure, their first few times probably weren't the best shags of all time, but in his defence he had been a virgin at that point in time. He had gotten a lot better since, he'd like to think, and above and beyond that, they went at it almost every night. How much more did she want?

"Relationship?" she exclaimed. "What relationship?" Rebecca stared as if he had grown a second head, her eyes wide. Then she smirked, some understanding – which he did not understand – seeming to dawn on her. "It's amazing, you've been famous since you were a year old and you still have no idea how this business works. I forget that sometimes, sorry, but the truth is that it's all about publicity. You might look at me think that I got where I am because I'm a great Beater, and you're right, I'm one of the best, but that's because I know how to play more than just Quidditch. It's a challenge getting into the spotlight, but once you're here, it's even harder to keep it on you when people have so much else to gossip about."

"We've had a lot of sex," she concluded, getting to her feet and grabbing her bag, "and it was good sex, don't get me wrong, but that's it, Harry. I don't feel anything for you. This isn't some epic Romeo and Juliet love affair, this isn't a star-studded romance; it's just two famous people hooking up to have some fun and giving their fans something to talk about."

Harry stared after her, feeling as though she had just slapped him across the face and gouged out half his cheek with her nails. It was one thing to know that their relationship – because he had truly perceived them as being in one of those – had fizzled out, but it was another thing entirely to realize that he had been little more to her than a famous sex toy.

"Oi!" he called, "I'm Harry Potter! You said that no girl –"

"I'm not a girl, honey," she interrupted, her tone dropping all facades of warmth as she spoke, "I'm a woman."

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, his cheeks burning a bright red as she smirked, twirling a strand of sable hair beneath her fingers, and seemingly waited for him to respond. When he didn't, she giggled and turned on her heel.

"Welcome to the world of the rich and famous, love," she said as she stepped into the fireplace, walking out of his life in a gout of jade flames and leaving behind a very harsh lesson in her wake.

 **.o0o.**

"I didn't come to Australia to go to parties, Shawn," protested Hermione, firmly crossing her arms and legs as she sat back on his armchair, "I came here to look for my parents and that's that."

"So you're planning on sitting here all alone when we have no new leads when there's a great party just three floors below us?" Shawn grinned, perching on the edge of the coffee table and flashing his perfect white teeth.

"You are correct," she said, deciding to use the same trick that had succeeded on Ron and Harry whenever she needed to win an argument. Narrowing her eyes and pressing her lips into a thin line, she glared directly into his eyes, and tried to look as intimidating as possible.

Unfortunately for her, both Harry and Ron did not have Shawn's brilliant, almost hypnotic, blue eyes. Already she could feel herself caving.

 _Stay strong, Hermione_ , she urged herself, her lower lips beginning to tremble as he failed to drop his gaze.

"It doesn't hurt to cut loose and have fun once in a while, Hermione," he said, "How're you gonna live if you're always working?"

"I'm not really the partying type of girl," she explained. "It's not really my scene, honestly, you'll probably have more fun without me."

"And how exactly do you know that without even giving it a try?" he shot back. "Like I said, it's just three floors down. If you don't like it, it'll take you less than five minutes to get back up here." He pouted, sticking out his lower lip and putting on the puppy-dog eyes, and damn him but that expression was making it all the more difficult to say no.

She nibbled at her lower lip, her stubbornness slowly being chipped away by his adorable, basically pleading, look. Her facade was crumbling; she couldn't keep up her stern countenance much longer, not when she was already nursing such a huge crush on the surfer.

It wasn't like he was asking that much from her, she finally reasoned, getting to her feet and breaking eye contact. With a low groan, she admitted defeat. "Give me ten minutes to find something to wear."

Ignoring his exaggerated fist pump of victory, she shook her head as she walked to his guest room and firmly shut the door behind her. Not that she thought he would try spying on her whilst she changed, for she doubted that Shawn was in any way as creepy as that, but mainly so that he wouldn't see her panic.

Hermione Granger had packed three suitcases of clothes and other belongings before travelling to Australia, as well as a new handbag with the same enchantments that had been placed on the one she had lost during the war. And she knew, without even checking, that she had not packed a single cute dress.

Cussing under her breath in a most unladylike manner, she hefted the first suitcase out from under her bed and flung it open, hoping she'd be able to improvise. Eyes flying to the deep purple halter top with the faux amethyst gems on the straps, she tossed it onto the bed and began digging for a matching skirt.

Soon enough, thankfully for her as she didn't want to turn into one of those girls who spent three hours getting ready, she unearthed an elegant ankle length black skirt. Laying out both articles of clothing on the bed, she got out her wand and began making adjustments, hoping that her severing and colour changing charms wouldn't end up destroying her clothes.

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the room, dressed in a purple chiffon dress that went just an inch or two past her knees, complete with a halter neckline that bared what she felt was an ample amount of cleavage. She had no time to magically straighten her hair, a process which if she remembered correctly would take close to two hours, and had instead opted to leave it open. Wearing a pair off heels transfigured out of her bedroom slippers, she allowed herself to smirk as Shawn's eyes widened at the sight of her.

"Dressing to impress, eh Sheila?" he teased, and she playfully slapped his arm when she made her way to him.

"I don't really need to dress up to impress people," she replied, laughing as he held out his arm, and she felt herself tremble as she took it. A part of her, the logical part, was begging for her to change back into her regular clothes and curl up in bed with a book, but a larger part, a wilder, fierier part that Shawn alone seemed able to tap into was urging her to submit to a much more carnal desire.

"That is very true," he said, returning the laugh.

They had just left the front door when she decided that she had had enough of dancing upon eggshells. She was Hermione Granger, a war heroine, and if she could duel Bellatrix Lestrange, then she could pluck up her courage and do this.

Shoving him backwards against the door and causing it to slam shut on the passage, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him, her lips crashing against his before he could so much as exclaim in surprise. For a split second he froze and she wondered if she had just made a huge mistake, but then his arms were wrapping around her waist and he was kissing back, his tongue slipping in between her parted lips.

His kiss tasted of the ocean and the salt sea breeze, she noticed, as her hands took on a life of their own and began undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"What . . . about . . . the party," he managed between kisses, and she could feel him stifle a moan as he nails trailed down his bared chest, popping the last few buttons.

"Let's make our own," she replied, pulling away from his kiss-bruised lips and fixing him with the most smouldering look she could muster.

"You sure?" he asked, as she began backing away towards his bedroom, her fingers hooked in his belt so as to bring him with her.

"Positive."

 **.o0o.**

Ron didn't really care much for the Fashion Launch that he was attending courtesy of Witch Weekly and their strange need to invite him, but he was determined to make the most of it even though he'd much rather be relaxing at the Leaky after a rough day of training with Neville, Terry and Padma.

He was so far distinctly unimpressed by the event as other than a few beautiful witches modelling down the runway, there was nothing to do other than mingle with people who seemed to have sticks so far up their arses that they could be confused for ice-lollies, and drink cocktails that looked interesting, but didn't appear to have alcohol in them.

The night had started out well enough. He had brought along Neville as his plus one with the understanding that they would both be going stag to an event inhabited by dozens of Witch Weekly's finest models. They had met up with Harry, who had had a similar idea, though he did seem rather down tonight.

Before Ron had gotten the chance to ask his best-mate what the matter was, Charise Milotti, one of the most voluptuous, gorgeous models that he had ever seen on the cover of Playwizard, had jammed her tongue down the Chosen One's throat. The newly made couple had disappeared shortly after and Ron didn't need to use his imagination to piece together what they may have been doing.

Neville had blown him off next, though at least his friend had offered him an apology before leaving him to flirt with one of the girls. Watching his friend, who'd once been known for his bumbling forgetfulness, charm and pick up a girl with such ease was just another bit of proof to Ron that the events of the war had changed them all.

Grouchily sipping at something called a Bloody Mary, he glared out across the crowd, eye twitching as the runway show ended and a soft melody began to play, signalling that it was time for people to begin dancing. Pssst, as if a slow song by Celestina Warbeck would be enough to get him onto the dancefloor.

"Well well," said a familiar voice from behind him, "You look lonely."

"Lavender." He chuckled at he spun around in his chair, letting one arm lean on the bar as she flagged over the bartender and ordered something called a _Cosmopolitan_ , whatever the hell that was. "What're you doing here?"

"I work here," she replied, "Still an intern, but I'll hopefully be writing articles for them soon enough."

"Blimey, Lav, that's great." Genuinely happy for her, he leaned forward and hugged her, forgetting for a brief moment that they were exes and such things just didn't happen. She cleared her throat and he blushed, before pausing as he pulled away and glancing suspiciously at her face.

"You're wearing glamours," said Ron, running his thumb along her smooth cheek and feeling the raised scars that ran beneath the illusion.

"Fenrir Greyback," she whispered, her voice so low that even he barely heard, "You were at the battle, you saw him scar me."

"But why are you hiding them?"

"I don't want people to see me with my scars," she replied softly, looking away, her voice low and anxious. "I don't want you to see how ugly I really am."

"Those scars just remind me of how strong you are," he said, "because you survived the monster that gave them to you.

She leaned in, just as he did, their lips closing the gaps until he could feel hers just millimetres away from his. For what felt like eternity, they froze in that position, till she pulled away and got to her feet.

"That's a beautiful sentiment, Ron," she said with a wan smile, "But in the real world, especially this one, where looks are everything, beauty is only skin deep."

 **.o0o.**

"The holidays start in a week," she said, a dreamy look in her eyes as she walked at his side, the gravel crunching beneath her bare feet. It had at first seemed odd to him that she had shown up barefoot with her jeans rolled up past her calves. Then again, this was Luna Lovegood, and he had come to expect the unusual from working with her for most of the term.

Considering the last ingredient to their potion had to be handpicked and could only be added within two hours of collecting it, perhaps it was apt that she had come prepared to go wading in the shallows of the Black Lake.

"I can't wait," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. Unlike her, he always dressed with the decorum that befit his rank as the heir to a noble house, and he was certain that had anyone seen them, they would certainly look like a highly unusual pair.

"Are you going home for the holidays?" she asked, stopping when she reached the part of the lake in which the plant grew according to Slughorn. _Aquelas Leaf_ , he had said, a very potent ingredient that they would need quite a bit off.

"Of course." He snorted at her question, wondering what else she had expected him to do. It wasn't as though he was being treated warmly at Hogwarts, despite him being on his best behaviour, and he hadn't seen his mother in months.

"That's nice," she said, not seeming to react to his rudeness in the slightest, choosing instead to squint across the surface of the lake in search of the leaves.

"There's a bunch growing near that rock." Luna pointed out. "And some more, over there, next to those lilies. How about you pick the first bunch, and I'll get the one that's deeper in."

Draco stared at her, eyebrows disappearing past his fringe, as the meaning of her words sank in. Did she– did she really think he'd go mucking about in the mud? Of all the nerve! What if the water was all slimy with frogspawn? Merlin, what if there were actual frogs in there?

He'd never recover. Luna would just have to go by herself. Surely she'd realised from the start that he was dressed to perfection and couldn't possibly get his clothes wet. It wasn't that he really had an aversion to getting wet, or going swimming, indeed his parents had seen that he knew how from a very early age.

This was not their magically filtered swimming pool though! This was the Black Lake! The Giant Squid lived in there. What if it got hungry and decided he looked particularly tasty?

"Could you repeat that?" he finally asked, coming to his senses and realising that he had probably just heard her wrong.

"I've warned you, Draco, that being grumpy all the time attracts the Wrackspurts," she pointed out, rolling her eyes at him. She raised her voice before continuing, "I said that I'll get the leaves from that bunch by the lilies, and you can go get the ones by that rock."

"I thought that you were going to go get the leaves." He scowled, folding his arms and tapping his heel in a posture eerie reminiscent of his mother whenever she wanted to win an argument with his father. "I don't want to go in there."

"Draco," she said, and he was sure he imagined the strain of irritation in her voice.

"Don't Draco me, it worked when you asked me to slice those flesh-eating slugs, it isn't going to work here."

"Draco," she warned, suddenly looking much more imposing than she had not two seconds ago. Something nagged at him that this was a girl who had not only co-led a resistance force during the war, but one who had also survived months of imprisonment, one of which had been in Azkaban. Despite knowing this, and the sensation that was tugging at his gut to just swallow his pride and do as she asked, he stood firm. He was, after all, a Malfoy, and Malfoys did not go mucking about in the mud.

"Luna, I really do no–"

"Draco Malfoy! You listen to me right now, take off those shoes, roll up those pants, and go get those leaves," she snapped, somehow managing to look serene even as her tone suggested she could very well snap his neck at this point in time.

Staring at her in amazement, as he had not been aware that she could become frustrated and snap at a person, he finally nodded. "OK, OK, there's no need to yell," he grumbled, bending over and beginning to undo his laces.

"Thank you." Luna smiled, tugging of her woollen sweater and setting it aside on the shore before tucking her shirt into her jeans, rolling up the legs a little more, and hopping into the water with a soft splash.

"This shirt is Italian silk," he complained as he stood at the water's edge, watching her slowly thread deeper into the shallows, folding up his slacks with his free hand, his coat already deposited beside her sweater. Gingerly touching the water with his toe, he winced at how cold it was.

"Then take it off," she called as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and after a moment of thought, he realised that it was. Then again, he really didn't want to be bare-chested in front of her. That desire was outweighed, however, by his firm need to not be yelled at again.

"Fine, fine," he yelled, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside before stepping into the water, cringing at the mud squelched between his toes. The complaints never ceasing in their flow, he went in until the water was at his navel, before beginning to pluck the succulent leaves.

Turning his head, he could see Luna already making her way back to the shore with her leaves, and he scowled as the thought that she had sent him after the harder leaves began to take root in his mind. Draco was so busy complaining, in fact, that he somehow missed the ripples of something approaching, till an icy wave slammed into his back and he shrieked in surprise.

Whirling, the leaves falling from his hands and floating across the still waters, he came face to face with Luna, who was wearing an incredibly cheeky grin on her face. Gasping, he shivered, letting out another low scream when she splashed him again, this time from the front.

"You shouldn't have done that," he spluttered, slamming his hand against the water and sending a miniature wave splashing over her. Luna yelped, before sending another wall of water his way.

Ten minutes later, coughing and gasping for air, Draco managed to escape with just enough of the leaves needed. Dragging himself onto the shore, he collapsed against the gravel, somehow no longer caring about his mud-covered feet or the gooseflesh prickling across his entire body.

"Never do that again," he managed as she climbed onto shore and shook herself like a wet dog. That entire escapade had been downright insane, and he hoped to never do anything that out of the ordinary again.

Looking over at his companion drying herself off in the sun, he realised that ever since Luna Lovegood had floated into his life, everything that involved her had bordered on insane.

And somehow, Draco Malfoy found that he didn't really mind going a little insane with her around.

 **.o0o.**

 **In the Next Chapter of Lovers and Liars**

" _As it turns out," said Percy dryly, "Disowning your family during a civil war helps you accumulate a sizable amount of vacation time. I'm on paid leave till January."_

 _George stared for a full minute before bursting out laughing, clutching at his sides with plaster-caked fingers and gasping for breath. The subject was still a rather sore one within their family, from what he remembered, but the candid way in which his brother presented it to him had him in stitches._

* * *

 _ **A/N: A massive thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Hope you enjoyed this one.**_


	6. The First Snowfall

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **The First Snowfall**

Hermione woke the next morning, a lazy smile spreading across her face, and stretched, yawning as she did so. Beside her, she felt him stir and she stilled, not wanting to wake him so early. She remembered him mentioning that he had never been fond of waking early and she, in addition, needed some time to think about what had just transpired.

Something had come over her last night; a strange feeling that had led her to behave in a manner that she would ordinarily shy away from. It wasn't apparent to her what had caused it. Perhaps it had been the sensations of beauty as she had stood there in her dress, the way he had seemed to devour her with his eyes. It could have been desire, not for his body, but rather the burning need to feel what other people her age felt, to be normal and worry about things like guys and not Dark Lords or missing parents.

Whatever it had been, she could not deny the chemistry that had sparked between Shawn and herself. It had been a discharge of static from the very first touch, a lingering, slowly building blast of electricity that had been let loose in a flurry of tangled legs, wandering arms, and heated kisses.

It was a strange feeling to no longer be a virgin, one that caused her to wonder about why there was such a hype placed upon losing one's _innocence._ True, the act itself had been exquisite, almost deliciously so, a flood of sensation that had her screaming out his name, and even the sting of his first entrance had only served to heighten the experience. It had been exhilarating and she didn't regret it in the slightest . . . but it had been nowhere near as earth-shattering as Lavender and Parvati had always made it out to be.

"Good morning." She heard his voice and rolled over, her body shifting so that she was on her side facing him. Languidly, he stretched out an arm, letting her use his bicep as a pillow as he inclined his head towards her.

"Good morning," was her reply, feeling his fingers begin to draw small circles down her back.

"I wonder if they missed us at that party," he said. She laughed. It felt good to laugh, to genuinely laugh at a joke and forget the pain of yesterday. It was as though a weight had lifted off her shoulders and her stress had melted away. For so very long, she had pushed herself into her work, first with the aftermath of the war, and then with finding her parents, but for the first time she had remembered what it was to be alive.

The sex, she knew, hadn't been what had healed so many of the invisible wounds wrought across her. Rather, it had been the act of doing something that was more for herself than the people around her. They had all always depended on her, leaning on her shoulders and expecting her to come up with the solutions to it all, and she had never truly complained.

It just felt good to be doing something for herself, and only herself, for once.

"I s'pose my prowess in the sack has left you incapable of speech," he teased, reaching out with his free hand to brush a few stray curls from her eyes.

"Or maybe I'm just trying to think of what to say without hurting your feelings?" She smirked, watching as he let a look of faux crossness settle across his features. Fighting the urge to not laugh at his theatrics, her eyes were diverted to the scars along his arm, and almost instantly the teasing gleam faded from her eyes.

She had scars too, and she wondered if he had seen them.

Seeing where she was staring, Shawn quieted down and flexed his arm, throwing the jagged white scars into stark relief against his tanned skin. Seeming to know what her question would be before she asked it, he nodded and she moved to touch them.

"Tiger shark got me a few years back," he explained, a wan smile crossing his face as she traced the raised scar tissue, her fingertips ghosting over it.

"And you kept the arm?" she queried. She had seen shark attacks before on television and they had been gruesome, bloody, and almost always resulted in missing limbs.

"Dittany," he said with a shrug, "I am a wizard, you know."

Sensing that this was a subject that he did not want to dwell on and understanding the feeling of keeping past traumas out of sight and out of mind, she tilted her head up and kissed along his jaw.

"I do remember," she began, "you telling me that." She paused, her concentration almost breaking as she felt him against her thigh, before she continued, "that your prowess would render me speechless."

"I did," Shawn replied, amused, blue eyes darkening with lust.

"As you can tell," she said, "I haven't been left speechless yet, and it's still a bit too early in the day to go chasing leads."

The words had barely left her mouth before he had rolled her over, his arms caging around her, one disappearing into her curls whilst the other curled around her back. She smirked, running her nails down his back, before capturing his lips with her own.

 **.o0o**

"You do realise you're a wizard, right?" asked a voice from the storefront, and George looked up from the walls he had been plastering. Specks of grey covered his clothing, another of his old sets, and sweat beaded down his face, but he had made a lot of progress in the restoration of his store over the past fortnight. Judging by how things were going, he was confident that he'd be able to reopen by no later than Easter, and if everything went smoothly, Weasley Wizard Wheezes would be open for business by Valentines.

"Is it just me or did you just recommend against hard work?" George teased. He paused, sensing the humour in his voice and realising that it was the first time since Fred had passed that he'd let any trace of amusement escape his lips.

Somehow, it felt fitting that it was the brother who had been there when Fred had died that had given him a reason to joke again.

"Oh, I'm all for hard work," replied Percy, squatting down beside him. "But you're not exactly the first person I'd have pegged to share that trait with me."

"No," he pointed out, "You and I just work hard in very different areas."

"Fair enough." Percy cleared his throat and George inclined his head, really looking at this brother rather than the cursory glance he had given earlier. He raised an eyebrow in confusion, unsure of what exactly he was seeing, especially considering he had rarely, if ever, seen his brother not in formal robes or a suit.

"Are those trackpants?" he asked, stunned, having always assumed that Percy didn't even know where to buy comfortable trousers, let alone owned a pair.

"I can't very well put up drywall in a suit now, can I?" answered Percy, leaving him dumbfounded as he stared at his brother like a fish out of water.

"You're here to. . ." he trailed off, jaw still feeling slack as he watched Percy pick up a trowel and scooped up a large globule of plaster with it.

"To help you, yes," finished Percy, straightening his glasses with his free hand before getting to his feet without another word, and began to climb the ladder to do the higher portions of the wall that George had been saving for last.

"What about work?" asked George, going back to his section of the wall while he spoke, unsure of how to proceed. Of all his brothers, Percy was the last one he'd have expected to show up and help him. To be fair, he hadn't even told his siblings what he was doing – Ron knew, having come to check up on him on their mother's request the other day, and Bill knew, having passed the shop on his way to the bank every morning, but he hadn't told anybody else.

He hadn't asked for help merely because this was something he had wanted to do by himself. It was strange then how, despite his personal intentions, he felt warmth begin to spread across his chest. Soon enough, he recognised it as the feeling that accompanied Christmas morning, or Easter, or even just a Sunday dinner with the entire family squeezed into the Burrow.

It was the warmth of family, a concept he had all but closed himself off to in the months since his twin's passing, one that he didn't know till now how much he had missed.

"As it turns out," said Percy dryly, "Disowning your family during a civil war helps you accumulate a sizable amount of vacation time. I'm on paid leave till January."

George stared for a full minute before bursting out laughing, clutching at his sides with plaster-caked fingers and gasping for breath. The subject was still a rather sore one within their family, from what he remembered, but the candid way in which his brother presented it to him had him in stitches.

Who knew Percy had a hidden streak of snarky humour concealed beneath all those layers of prat and git?

Somehow, those words didn't even hold any malice as he said them in his mind, as they had for the past few years. They'd taken on the same fondness from his childhood, during which he insulted Percy with love and brotherly affection, and yes, even a little bit of jealousy based on how easily Outstanding results seemed to fall into Percy's lap.

For nearly three and a half years he had thought that he hated his brother, but now as he watched Percy chuckle and splatter himself with plaster and putty, he realised that he had never really loathed him.

He had just missed him, thinking that Percy had callously abandoned them for an easier path.

For a while they worked in companionable silence and George was surprised to see the fervour with which Percy worked, and how he never once seemed to get tired of winded. This wasn't the brother he knew, who'd spend days cooped up in his room scrawling out reports rather than come flying with them.

His brother had changed – but then, George considered, so had they all.

It was late afternoon when he finally grew tired of seeing the guilty glances thrown his way from the corner of his eye, and sighed before turning around to look at Percy. He didn't want to bring up this topic, but it needed to be said.

"I don't blame you for Fred, Perce," he said, his voice cracking as he said his twin's name.

"Geo–"

"It wasn't your fault. He died because of Voldemort. There's no blame on your shoulders, none at all, so don't feel guilty, Percy. Besides, knowing Fred, he'd be haunting you if you were to blame."

He turned away, blinking away the tears that stung at the corner of his eyes when suddenly, he felt an arm across his shoulders, and heard Percy's voice, thick with emotion.

"He died laughing, you know," mumbled Percy, "I'd just jinxed Pius Thicknesse and told him I'd be resigning, you know, because I'd seen reason and was fighting with you all. And Fred heard, and h–"

"Sounds like Fred." George smiled wanly, even as the tears brimmed in his eyes, for this was the first time he'd heard the tale of his twin's last moments. "Always said that he'd meet Death with a grin before demanding the return of my ear."

The plastering forgotten, two brothers sat side by side upon the floor, half-laughing and half-crying till the moon replaced the sun and the stars winked down at them from above.

 **.o0o.**

The scarlet Hogwarts Express snaked across the moors, green fields covered in freshly fallen drifts of powdery white, the first snowfall of the year having come the night before they were due to leave Hogwarts. Despite the creeping chill of winter that had enveloped the country, the compartments of the train were warm and toasty, the cold kept at bay by dozens of warming charms.

Draco stared out the window and watched the hillocks pass by, eyes flicking towards the grey sky every now and then, and trying his best to ignore the constant bickering that was going on between his friends.

It wasn't working out that well.

Favouring them with an irritated glare, he idly wondered what Luna was doing in her compartment on the other end of the train. No doubt she'd be regaling her companions with the dangers of mistletoe and the Nargles that infest them, or else attempting to raise interest about the _ice bunnies_ , which were an apparently adorable breed of rabbits that appeared during the first snowfall of the year and feasted on human flesh.

When he had told Pansy and Blaise about them the night after first learning of their supposed existence, they both had looked at him as though he were off his rocker. He wasn't, thank you very much, but after the incident in the Lake he had found himself spending more and more time with the eccentric Ravenclaw. More often than not she would choose to share her theories with him and, strangely enough, he had begun to wonder if there was truth to a few of them.

He had seen strange things during his time as a Death Eater, fairies made of ash with tattered wings, spectral bats that drank the blood of giants, and even stranger creatures that he dare not think about. The world, he had learned, was inhabited by creatures of darkness that no textbook spoke off; monsters which he had thought lived only in fables and bedtime stories.

If they existed, if the Dark Lord had managed to rouse such beings from their slumber, then was it not possible for the beings Luna described to exist as well.

Abruptly torn from his musings by a pair of fingers snapping just inches in front of his face, he started. Pulling himself away from the freshly varnished nails, he turned to glare at Pansy.

"What was that for?"

"Stop daydreaming about your loony new girlfriend and listen to me!" she exclaimed, snapping her fingers once more for emphasis before turning back to fix Blaise with a fiery look. Draco watched, vaguely amused, as his friend instantly rearranged his features so as to appear contrite rather than mocking.

As Blaise innocently batted his eyes at Pansy, Draco felt the amused smirk fall off his face as her words sank in. He hadn't really been paying attention, writing it off as the usual death threats she was prone to aiming their way when ignored.

"Wait a minute," he said, looking confused, "What new girlfriend?"

"Lovegood, Draco, you remember her? Blonde hair, radishes hanging from her ears, more than a little ditsy?" Blaise commented, rolling his eyes. "Wait, did she drug you? Is that why you've been acting weird recently?"

"I thought it was weird that he'd be seeing her of all people," chirped in Pansy, leaning in and stretching the skin above and below his left eye with her fingers, before squinting into his eye. Gritting his teeth, he batted her hand away.

"Seems normal," she declared, frowning. "So, you're actually with Lovegood now?"

"Luna and I are not seeing each other," scoffed Draco, acutely aware of his flaming cheeks. He inwardly cursed his pale complexion, knowing that whilst he didn't blush all that often, it was painfully obvious on the rare occasions that he was.

"Oh, is it Luna now?" queried Blaise with a cheeky grin. "I remember you referring to her as an oddity two years ago."

"We are not seeing each other," he insisted, scowling. "We're just friends, that's it."

"Because I spend the night in the Astronomy Tower with all my friends," remarked Pansy, quirking an eyebrow at him as he gaped at her, wondering how she had known. He had been so careful, waiting for Blaise to fall asleep before sneaking out to meet her outside the Ravenclaw Common Room.

It had all been innocent, of course, but the glint in Blaise's eyes told him that neither of his friends believed that.

"She said she liked the stars, OK?" grumbled Draco, folding his arms and sinking into his seat. "We were celebrating getting O's on our Potions assignment."

"You went stargazing with her?" Blaise scrunched up his eyes, tears of laughter sparkling in the corners, and he leaned across the compartment to clap him on the shoulder. Draco's scowl deepened as he shook his friend off, turning back to stare out the window. He watched their reflections in the window, wondering if he could trust them with this.

It hit him as he saw Pansy, in a rare display of tenderness, mouth to Blaise to lay off him. In that moment he realised that he had always known he could trust the two of them, the real issue was that he didn't think he could trust himself to be honest.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself.

"Suppose I did, you know, like her? What then?"

"You ask her out, plain and bloody simple." Blaise shrugged, the look on his face making it clear that he didn't completely approve of this latest development. Well, thought Draco, they had forced the issue and now they had better damn well help him deal with it.

"It isn't that simple though, is it?" interjected Pansy and he was stunned by the genuine strain of concern in his voice. "She's a Pureblood, but she wasn't on our side."

"We're from two different worlds," agreed Draco, turning back to face them with a strained smile on his face. "I'd rather not darken hers with mine."

 **.o0o.**

Diagon Alley was almost empty, something which was not surprising given the weather. The snow covered the cobblestones, ankle deep in places, and he shivered as he made his way towards the cordoned off building halfway down the street.

It was quite cold and he would much rather be spending his time at home beneath his covers, taking as much advantage as he could of the fact that he was the only one left in the Burrow for his mother to fuss over. The Hogwarts Express was already on its way to King's Cross, bringing with it his sister.

Not that Ron hadn't considered striking out on his own, he had, but he knew that his mother needed him around. It was the little things that he did, such as picking up her potions from St. Mungo's during his lunch breaks, or helping her prepare dinner so that she could have an extra fifteen minutes to rest, that he felt were helping her.

Next to George, she had been the one to take losing Fred the hardest.

Her nightmares had been getting worse the nearer it got to Christmas and he shrewdly suspected that it was the thought of their first Christmas without Fred that was causing them. Having agreed to fetch Ginny from the station, and drop off a flask of chicken stew at the store on his way, he had finally coaxed her to take her potion and catch a few winks.

Besides, he dearly wanted to see Percy doing construction work.

The idea of his, for want of a better word, most nerdy brother using tools was laughable, especially since Percy had often refused to polish his broom when they were younger. Then again, his brother had never really been one to go flying with the rest of them.

When he finally reached the store, he found himself quite impressed with the amount of work that had already been done. The walls had been plastered, framing had been installed to support the drywall partitions, and the ceiling had already been done. It was still a far cry from what it had been before being torched . . . but it was also looking much better than it had just three weeks ago.

"Look who decided to show his face," called George, sticking his head in through the side door that led to the bathroom. "Mister Auror himself."

"Good to see you're feeling better," chuckled Ron, loping over, but not before setting the flask down near the stairs leading up to George's flat. Entering the narrow walkway that led to the toilets, he found himself face to face with both is brothers. George wasn't wearing a shirt, causing Ron to wonder if all the alcohol his brother had ingested really had somewhat damaged his brain, and was installing the left door.

Percy was sitting on the floor, covered in sawdust and woodchips, back resting against the wall. Ron fought the urge to laugh – he should have known that Percy wouldn't really be doing much of the construction.

C'mon, this was Percy he was talking about!

"What happened, Perce?" mocked Ron with a smirk, "I thought you were helping out?"

"I am." Percy looked at him with a straight face, seeming to check whether or not he was being made fun off. "I'm already done with putting in the doors in the gent's, just waiting for slowpoke over there to finish up so we can close up for the day."

"Is he serious?" Ron stared, dumbfounded, before hurrying forward and pushing open the door on the right – it swung open more smoothly than some of the doors in Hogwarts – and stared about the bathroom. Sure enough, the place was in need of a paint job, but every cubicle door was in.

"Your faith in me is inspiring," commented Percy dryly, and George chortled, his screwdriver slipping and almost stabbing his finger.

"I'll bet you learned all this back when you were working for Crouch, right?" Ron retorted, even though he felt more than a little embarrassed at making such an assumption and then being shown up. He could feel the tips of his ears heat up but good-naturedly nodded before taking a seat beside his eldest brother present. "Had you renovating his manor, did he?"

"I had to do a lot of work on my place in London when I first moved, Ron," explained Percy, "It was a bit of a fixer-upper and I ended up picking up a few things."

"First and only time I'll say it," George declared from the other side of the door, his voice punctuated by the sound of a hammer knocking upon a nail. "But he's honestly been a lot of help."

"Told you he just needed time," he whispered to Percy, keeping his voice low so that George couldn't hear him.

His brother smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, nodding, the look on Percy's face being all that he needed as thanks. Then his eyes widened as they fell upon a duo of small red bruises half-hidden by Percy's vest.

"Percy," said Ron, his mouth stretching into one of the widest grins he had ever given, "Are those hickies on your shoulder?"

"No."

"You should see the ones he has on his legs," yelled George, his voice carrying over the sound of the hammer. "On that note, seeing him in shorts will scar you for life."

Percy's face was redder than his hair and Ron, for the first time, saw his brother in a whole new light. His grin widened as his brother spluttered, no doubt trying to come up with some sort of excuse for his interestingly located love-bites. Before he could, however, Ron had glanced at his watch and yelped, realising that he was running late and that the Hogwart's Express would have already arrived.

"Gotta run," he said, leaping to his feet and Disapparating before either of his brother's could reply. Ginny was already in a bad mood because of failing her Apparition exam and he hated having to deal with her when she was in a temper.

He shouldn't have worried. Despite being late and the platform being near deserted, his sister didn't seem in the least bit concerned about getting home. Instead, she was pressed up against the wall, her fingers lost in some bloke's hair with the bloke's – Ron decided that his name was _dead man_ – arms around her waist.

Ron cleared his throat, wondering why he was the one who always caught Ginny when she was with a bloke and not one of their older, more intimidating brothers. Like Charlie, because seriously, would any bloke dare go after a girl whose brother worked with dragons?

"Oi!" he shouted when it didn't seem him clearing his throat was having any affect. They broke apart, Ginny fixing him with a glare, but it was the bloke who was the subject of his ire.

Dennis Creevey had, at the very least, the grace to look guilty.

 **.o0o.**

 **On the next chapter of Lovers and Liars**

 _"Hey little guy," said Harry, picking the nine month old boy up. "I know that it's taken me a while to come see you, but I'm your godfather."_

 _Teddy Lupin paused in shaking his rattle and instead stared at him as though he was the strangest thing the kid had ever seen. Teddy cocked his head to one side, tufts of turquoise hair beginning to darken till they were as dark as his own._

 _"I think we'll get along just fine," continued Harry when all seemed to be going well._

 _Teddy responded appropriately by smacking him in the nose with his rattle and giggling as he yelped in surprise._

* * *

 ** _A/N: A big thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. You guys are great._**

 ** _I noticed a few guest reviews regarding the potential pairings of the characters, and seeing as I can't PM a guest, I thought that I'd answer here. As far as possible, I'd like to avoid Spoilers, but to put it one way:_**

 ** _For all things there is a season. Some romances will blossom and then wilt. Some will stand the test of time. Some may one last long enough to scatter seeds for the next generation to bloom. Some people go their whole lives without finding the right person. Others find the right person more than once. My point is that even when a pairing seems confirmed in this story, and even when a love is strong, it could crumble at any time. I'm trying to capture a lot of realism with Lovers and Liars, and things like divorce or adultery are part of reality._**

 ** _That being said, if anyone has further questions regarding the story, feel free to PM me – I'm always willing to reply_** ** _J_**

 ** _-Ciao Mate_**

 ** _Shane_**


	7. Christmas: Part One

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Christmas Day**

 **Part One**

He woke, yawning into the back off his left hand whilst groping about the bedside table for his glasses with his right. It was late, but for once he didn't really care, content to simply laze and enjoy a morning free of chaos. Auror training was over for the year and would only begin again in January, and even though he'd have to keep up a training regime of some sort to stay in shape, it was also quite a relief.

He could feel winter's icy breath upon him even though he was still huddled beneath his blankets, and he instantly realised that it had snowed the previous night. Shuddering at the thought of more snow piling up against his front door – there truly was no end to it this year– he decided that this was the perfect opportunity to test out the tub in his bathroom.

Since he'd moved into his new place, his schedule hadn't given him much time to enjoy all of the luxuries that it offered. All he usually had time for in the mornings was a quick shower before dashing off to the Auror office, and even on weekend mornings when he had a girl over it had proved so much easier to use the shower.

Speaking of girls, he found it quite strange to be waking to an empty bed for once. Since Becca, his string of one night stands –occasionally lasting for a little longer – had graced his sheets, only to be sent packing the next morning. Witch Weekly, and Rita Skeeter, took great delight in publicising the details of his latest flings, but at the end of the day it was just like Becca had said.

No feelings, no attachments, just enjoying the finer things life had to offer, especially since he'd never really gotten to have a normal teenage life till this point. He wasn't going to lie; it had stung when Rebecca had confessed to using him as just another stepping stone to fame. It had hurt, not as badly, when Ginny had broken up with him.

So in a way, Rebecca's way was so much simpler.

Last night, however, he had simply felt too tired and drained to go anywhere. He didn't understand why this was, not since he'd had energy to spare every night after his training, most of which had been absolutely gruelling. Of course, he hadn't really been taking the energy potion Becca had left him since he'd no longer had to wake up at a time when normal people were still fast asleep, but that was besides the point.

Deciding that it was about time he took that bath, he rolled over, and screamed. He leapt back, nearly falling off the other end of the bed, his heart thudding in his throat at the sight.

Standing at the edge of his bed, staring at him through a pair of bulbous eyes, stood Kreacher. The House Elf cocked his head, amusement evident on his leathery face, before folding his gnarled arms across his spindly chest.

"Kreacher is quite cross with Master Harry," declared the elf, and Harry stared, unable to process what his elf was doing in his new house, or more to the point, why Kreacher had been watching him sleep.

"Nice to see you too, Kreacher," said Harry, gathering his sheets around him and staring at the elf as though he was insane. Truth be told, he hadn't really given his elf much thought since going to visit him once in the aftermath of the battle. It had seemed to him that Kreacher had grown quite friendly with a few of the more elderly Hogwarts elves, and he had thought Kreacher would be happier with them.

Evidently, he had been mistaken.

"Master Harry is getting himself a new home and not informing Kreacher," said the elf, looking less and less pleased as he spoke. "Kreacher has to hear from Bupo that his Master has taken a new home. The shame, Master Harry, and the rumours that I has been replaced." Then calmly, he looked around the room, sniffing disdainfully at the haphazardly arranged walk-in wardrobe which Harry had left open the night before, evidently not very impressed with the housekeeping skills he had seen. "Evidently not," he concluded, before turning back to Harry.

"Kreacher," Harry began, feeling quite put out at being scolded as if he were a little child. "Why are you here?"

"Kreacher is here to do what he has always done," replied Kreacher, "To serve Master."

"I don't really need –"

"Master Harry is now a respectable member of society," interrupted Kreacher, nodding emphatically, the locket of Regulus Black bouncing upon his thin chest. "Master will need Kreacher to keep his house whilst he goes about his business."

It was a few hours later before Harry was able to drag himself away from the conversation with the elf, having finally caved and agreed to Kreacher's offer. What was the harm, after all? The House Elf had been a brilliant ally during the brief period he had lived in Grimmauld Place whilst on the run, and despite the fact that he was getting on in years he had proved quite capable of keeping a house as large as Grimmauld spotless.

Head throbbing slightly, Harry groaned as he caught sight of the clock, realising that because of the elf's arrival he had ended up running late for a very important meeting. It was arguably one of the most important in his life and he couldn't be late, not for this, so he began getting ready much faster than he did for work.

His eyes felt somewhat grainy as he climbed down the stairs, but according to the steaming cup of coffee on the mantle, Kreacher already was proving to be invaluable to him. Downing it in one go, he felt a slight relief to his headache as the caffeine hit his system. Setting the cup back down on the mantle – no doubt Kreacher would get it – he stepped into the fireplace and, tossing a handful of powder at his feet, he said, "Tonks residence."

He carefully dusted the soot off his clothes before stepping out of the fireplace, and gingerly smiled at the imposing, regal form of Andromeda Tonks sitting upon the nearest couch, a pair of knitting needles in her hands and an icy glare in her eyes.

"I guess you got my owl then?" Harry asked, rubbing at the back of his head. His head throbbed, just a little though, and he stifled a groan as Andromeda raised her eyebrows.

"Obviously, or else I'd have asked why you've come to call."

"He's my godson, Andromeda," he said, "I want to be there for him."

Andromeda remained silent, as if studying him for a moment, before getting to her feet and gesturing for him to follow. It didn't take them long to reach a bedroom, and going through the open door, Harry came face to face with a chubby blue-haired baby playing on the floor.

"You're leaving him alone?" he asked, incredulous, instantly regretting his question as her eyes flashed.

"I have raised children before, Mister Potter, I am well aware of the protective enchantments and wards that can ensure a child is not in harm's way whilst I go about doing my housework."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have . . ." he trailed off, shrugging sheepishly as a look of vague amusement seemed to flit across her face for the barest of seconds.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything. It's almost time for his lunch." Andromeda nodded curtly before slipping from the room, moving with a natural grace that made it very clear that Tonks hadn't inherited her clumsiness from the maternal side of her family tree.

Teddy looked up at him curiously, waving a rattle and cocking his head to the side as though studying him. As Harry reached down to pick him up, he cringed slightly at the sight of his eyes, so obviously his natural colour, a deep brown interspersed with flecks of amber.

The eyes of a wolf.

"Hey little guy," said Harry, picking the nine month old boy up. "I know that it's taken me a while to come see you, but I'm your godfather."

Teddy Lupin paused in shaking his rattle and instead stared at him as though he was the strangest thing the kid had ever seen. Teddy cocked his head to one side, tufts of turquoise hair beginning to darken till they were as dark as his own.

"I think we'll get along just fine," continued Harry when all seemed to be going well.

Teddy responded appropriately by smacking him in the nose with his rattle and giggling as he yelped in surprise. A smile broke out across his face as the baby smacked him a second time, giggling louder and feigning shock, taking extra care to pull a weird face.

Little Teddy laughed, innocent to tragedy surrounding his birth, and reached out a chubby fist to tug at Harry's hair. He winced, wondering how a baby could pull at his hair with such force. Then he froze, the rattle catching him in the temple and his headache almost tripled in intensity.

Tightening his grasp around the kid to ensure he did not drop him, he proceeded to make his way down to the kitchen, head feeling as though someone had stuck their wand into his ear and cast a _Cruciatus._ The headaches had been coming and going more and more recently since yesterday morning, but never had he felt one so ferocious, and he wondered if Teddy's infantile play had been what had triggered it.

Shoving the absurd notion aside, he knocked open the kitchen door with his elbow and, as quickly as he could, he pressed Teddy into Andromeda's arms.

"Potter?" Andromeda looked at him, a matriarchal concern – so different from her earlier indifference – evident in her gaze as he sank into a chair and began massaging his temples. A low groan escaped his throat, his vision growing slightly grainy around the edges, and he hurriedly blinked to try and clear his eyes.

"Headache," he grunted, and the woman nodded sympathetically, the child in her arms beginning to fuss as if picking up on his pain. Harry swallowed, his eyes watering, before getting to his feet and gesturing towards the fireplace, silently taking his leave and hoping Andromeda would understand that he was not trying to be rude.

"Come around when you're feeling better," said Andromeda by way of farewell, her voice straining as she added, "I know full well how tough Auror training is on you young ones."

"I'll come around this weeke–" Harry managed, his last words being cut off as he disappeared in a flash of green flame. The Floo, if anything, brought with it a sense of nausea, and he clamped his eyes shut to ignore the dizzying sensation.

He stumbled into his living room, not caring that he was tracking ash and soot across the carpet. A feeling of lethargy had begun to settle across his limbs, making them feel like lead as he forced open his potions cupboard, hurriedly fingering the glass vials in their wooden stand. Finally, after what seemed like years, he extricated a chalky-pink potion and, biting off the wax stopper, he downed the headache potion in one go.

It was almost instantly soothing and he let out a sigh of relief as he settled down into one of the stools along the island, flicking his wand at the teapot in an attempt to relax after his sudden – and wholly unexpected ordeal. He remembered Aunt Petunia – and however poor a guardian she may have been to him, it could not be denied that she did have a certain degree of motherly instinct – often commenting that tea was one of the few things that could make anything feel better.

This, obviously, had never previously been the case for him before he'd usually been the one making them the tea, but he was willing to give it a go.

Harry yawned, by habit adding a drop of Becca's potion to his tea as he stirred.

 **.o0o.**

"So, isn't he a little young for you?" he asked, plopping down onto the couch and bringing up the question his sister had been avoiding since returning home from Hogwarts.

It was Christmas. Snow drifts covered the fields surrounding the Burrow and the windows were trimmed with frost. The tree has been erected, the halls decked with tinsel and baubles, and a gleaming golden star shone from the top.

But even the hearty aroma of Christmas dinner hadn't been enough to liven their spirits today of all days, for it was their first Christmas without Fred. One day, perhaps they'd be able to enjoy the season once more, but for now they were content to simply stand together as a family.

His mother had been the most devastated that day and had been put to bed after lunch, a strong draught of _Dreamless Sleep_ having been mixed in with her tea to ensure she wasn't plagued by nightmares. In what had been a first, their father had joined her in taking the potion, but Ron realised that he was taking the day just as hard, if not harder, than their mother was.

Bill and Fleur had taken their leave about an hour after their parents had retired, and as Ginny had surmised, their excuses had been just that, excuses driven by their need to return to Shell Cottage and shag.

Still, despite his family and friends not being gathered with him as they usually were, Ron didn't feel the crushing disappointment he'd expected. There was something vaguely relaxing about sitting in the living room with Ginny, Percy, and George, the four of them throwing back eggnog and just taking the time to be siblings again.

"I don't see any girls hanging off your arm, prat," retorted Ginny with a smirk. "Jealous much."

"He's hardly jealous," butted in George in a singsong voice, "Didn't you hear that Ickle Ronniekins has been spending his time with Lavender Brown?"

"I've just met her for drinks a few times," he explained, his cheeks burning. "It's nothing serious or romantic or anything. It isn't as if you've been much of a hit with the ladies yourself, George."

"Well, I have been living the life of a reclusive shut-in for the past few months." George snorted, the humorous glint evident in his eyes. "All the work on the shop has the whisky weight just melting off so I'll be pulling in no time, baby brother."

"Tasteful as always," Ginny sniggered, and he took the opportunity to note the pink tinge to his sister's cheeks and the slur that was beginning to touch her voice. She'd obviously been drinking a bit too much of the eggnog, but for once he didn't want to play the role of overprotective big brother.

She was going to get drunk anyway at this age, much in the same way that he and his brothers had had their alcoholic rites of passage, so he'd prefer she got wasted where they could keep an eye on her rather than at a bar with strangers.

"Well, when Percy's getting more action than you are, you know that you have no game." George shrugged as the words left his lips, ignoring the faux annoyed _harrumph_ that Percy made in response. Ron blushed again, his cheeks flaming redder than his hair as his siblings laughed, even Percy who had been the brunt of that joke.

"Are we sure those were hickeys and not just the work of his owl," pointed out Ron, downing a glass of eggnog and pouring himself another. The vaguely cloying, yet sharp taste coated his tongue and throat, and he shifted in his seat as a strange warmth began to spread through his chest.

"This is a really strong batch," he added as an afterthought, and when Percy and Ginny were the only ones to nod in response, all three turned to stare at George with raised eyebrows.

Clearly, his addiction had not been kicked as hard as he'd led them to believe.

"It's Christmas," declared George, "Why don't we cele –"

His brother was interrupted by the fireplace roaring to life and turning in his seat, Ron felt a surge of disbelief as Harry stepped into the room, accompanied by a giggling brunette. He'd rarely seen his best mate in weeks, barely a glimpse here and a glance there, and a part of him had truly expected Harry to have not shown up.

Really, maybe it was just two friends growing apart, but after losing Hermione earlier that year, Harry was the last person he'd expect to have walked away from the friendship. Ron actually envied his friend, if only a little, mainly because whilst he and his family had been grieving and trying to regain a foothold of normalcy, Harry had simply leapt into stardom.

The tension seemed almost palpable in the air, but George being George, he dismissed it without a care in the world, getting to his feet and offering Harry a hand.

"Great to see you're still alive, mate," said George by way of greeting. "And you brought company." He gestured at the skimpily clad brunette who simply giggled and waved, seeming to be joined to Harry as though they were Siamese twins.

"This is Amber Conant, my gir– my friend," said Harry, and Ron could have sworn that he saw his friend's fingers twitch, as though he were on edge.

"Playwitch has been good to you, Amber," said Percy, seeming as eager as George to try and dim the awkwardness of the situation. When they all turned to stare at Percy though, his older brother realised his blunder and simply held up both hands by way of surrender. "She was in my year at Hogwarts."

Their conversation carried on in that tone for quite some time, when suddenly a topic that Ron had been hoping they wouldn't return to was brought up, and he almost cringed as George mentioned wanting to meet Ginny's new boyfriend.

"Yeah," chimed in Percy, "When do we get to meet, and by meet I mean scare away, the new guy."

"I'm still testing the waters with Dennis, can you three cool it on the big brother patrol."

"You're seeing Dennis Creevey?" Harry's voice seemed to have frozen in his throat as he spoke, because even Ron could detect the iciness in his tone, and the way the room temperature seemed to drop instantly.

"I am," replied Ginny. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," answered Harry, and Ron knew for sure that the strain of bitterness was not imagined. "It's not my problem whose bishop you've been beating."

Ron saw red.

 **.o0o.**

George stared, stunned, waiting to see how his sister would react to the blatant insult Harry had just thrown her way. Since finding out that Ginny was snogging a lad that was two years younger than her, George had been teasing her about it at every available opportunity.

Even Percy had gotten in on the teasing with one or two snarky one-liners about how their sister was well on her way to becoming a cougar, but Ginny had simply laughed it all off and repaid the favour tenfold with her own brand of fiery wit.

This though . . . there had been no tone of joking in Harry's tone, and even the wording had been laced with venom. He watched, wanting to give the younger guy a piece of his mind but trusting his sister to hold her own, when suddenly she rose from her seat.

The absurd thought that she may kiss Harry whipped through his mind, when suddenly she pulled back her hand and he winced as he realised what was about to happen.

She slapped him, the harsh crack off her palm against his cheek echoing through the silent living room, and he watched as Harry took a step back. His sister's lip trembled, her hair crackling with static as she glared at him, her fingers clenched on the handle of her wand. Wondering if perhaps he should disarm her before she did any major damage to Harry, George extracted his own wand from his pocket, raising it warily when suddenly.

"Don't you dare, George," she snapped. He froze, watching as Ginny drew herself up to her full height. The model, Amber, stepped behind Harry, an ugly sneer across her face as she shot visual daggers at his sister.

"How dare you bring this, _this slag_ , into my home and then call me out for dating someone?" Ginny's voice was low, dangerous even, a sure sign to George that his sister had already passed the levels of anger. When Ginny was mad there'd be fire and yelling . . . but when you pushed to many of her buttons and she got quiet, just like she was now, well, even Fred and he had opted to tread carefully around her.

"Don't call her a–" retorted Harry, and George, even though he himself was more than a little angered Harry's gall, had to admire the guy for daring to brave Ginny in this kind of temper.

"I'll call her whatever I damn well please," interrupted Ginny, "It's what she is, isn't she? How many teenage wizards are fapping off to your squeeze's latest photo shoot in Playwizard, Harry? Don't get me started on the girl you had before this one, or the one before that, and don't deny it because you've been plastered across the cover of Witch Weekly snogging some new skank for the past three months."

"You're the one who broke up with me!" he roared in response, and George frowned at how bloodshot Harry's eyes were. It was probably one of the worst times to notice these things, but had the guy been sleeping recently? Why did his eyes look almost sunken, and why were his cheeks becoming so gaunt?

He'd known Harry for almost eight years at this point and it was fairly obvious to him that something was off about the younger man. He thanked Merlin that his parents had spared themselves the scene by taking their sleeping potions and calling it an early night, and that Bill and Fleur had already taken their leave.

In the background, he was dimly aware of Percy restraining Ron, but like him his older brother was holding his wand and warily watching the scene. Amber seemed to have fallen silent, a wise decision, but Harry and Ginny were still raging at each other, and it was becoming increasingly evident that a duel between the two may very well break out soon.

"I needed space, Harry! I needed time to cope with my brother _dying!_ I wanted to see how I really felt about you, about us, before committing to you and it's bloody great that I didn't."

"Considering how long it took you to hop on Dennis, I doubt you were finding yourself all that long. The two of you were probably grieving your brother's together I'll bet – interesting way to grieve, I'll bet, but I'll bet you helped him get over it real goo–"

"Get out," someone snarled, and it was only a few seconds later when George realised that he had been the one who'd spoken. Emboldened by the realization, he raised his wand and stepped forward, curling a reassuring arm around Ginny. His sister seemed to have been struck speechless by Harry's last blow, and even Ron and Percy were staring at him agape.

It wasn't that he'd basically called Ginny a loose woman, it was that he'd thrown Fred's death right into their faces, as if the pain of losing him was some kind of weapon.

"Get out," he repeated coldly.

"George, I didn't mean –" Harry seemed to come to the realization of what he'd said a little too late, his angry expression giving way to a look of horror, but George was having none of it. He didn't really care that the other guy looked as though he was coming down from a bender, or even that he was behaving in a manner that just seemed off.

A part of his mind nagged at him that something was wrong with Harry, but in that moment he simply pushed it aside. He didn't care.

Nobody, and he meant nobody, should dare throw his brother's name into his face with anything other than respect. Nobody.

"I don't care, Potter," George growled, "Just get out of here."

Harry gave them one last pained look before turning on his heel and leaving, almost dragging his date with him as he made for the Floo. George never dropped his glare till the flare of green flame signified the Chosen One's departure, and only then did he stow away his wand and guide his sister to the couch.

 **.o0o.**

 _ **A/N: Hullo mates, a big thank you to all the reviewers so far. I understand that at this point in the story it may not be everybody's cup of tea but these poor kids just got out of a war. I'm really trying to keep the casualties and conflict at a low level for now, and will probably give them all a brief period to just live before their lives get hard again.**_

 _ **Also, since this chapter ran quite long, I split it into two to make reading it easier. So the stay tuned for scenes will be at the end of the next chapter. We still have to see how Christmas went for Draco and Hermione.**_

 _ **Thirdly, I'd really like to hear your opinions on why you think Harry is acting the way he is. Hit me up in the reviews or PM with your theories.**_

 _ **Till next chapter.**_

 _ **-Shane**_


	8. Christmas: Part Two

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Christmas Day**

 **Part Two**

She had fully expected Christmas dinner to be a quiet affair that year. It was inevitable, she believed, considering that her parents were still missing and her friends – friends that she hadn't so much as corresponded with since reaching Australia – were oceans away. Perhaps, she had reckoned, she'd simply enjoy and evening alone with Chinese takeout on her plate and a bottle of wine at her side.

It had therefore surprised and touched her when Shawn announced that he'd be spending Christmas with her at his flat. Startled, she had asked him (perhaps tactlessly) why he wasn't visiting his family, a cheery bunch of people she'd seen scattered in photographs throughout his home. He'd grown quiet for a bit, and Hermione was sure she'd seen his eyes flicker towards the scars upon his arm before he'd plastered a smile across his face and changed the subject.

Christmas morning had been a lazy one, the two of them opting to wake well after the sun had risen. They had showered – together, so as to conserve water, a plan that had not really worked out considering they'd spent longer beneath the showerhead together than they would have separately – dressed, and then begun preparing a feast.

Maybe it had been the sight of Shawn trying to stuff a chicken, or the way she'd somehow covered them both in flour while trying to make a chocolate pie. Perhaps it could have been the way he'd knocked the star of their hastily decorated tree with a cork when he'd opened a bottle of sparkling wine.

Truth be told, she wasn't sure what it had been, but she was sure that it had somehow turned into one of the best Christmases of her life.

There was no fireplace in his home, so to set the mood she'd cast her trademark bluebell flames near the wall, and though it gave off warmth, it needed no fuel, burning without even giving off a whiff of smoke. He'd brought out a second bottle, pouring them both flutes of a wine so red it was almost black, and her lips had found his soon after.

As she lay upon the soft blankets they'd tangled around each other upon the living room floor, a sense of utmost calm fell upon her. This had been the first Christmas that she'd been able to truly enjoy without there being any sense of niggling worry in the back of her mind. She'd find her parents soon – Shawn and her were narrowing down the search, after all, and there were only so many Wilkins households that they had left to check. Nor was there any threat of war and death upon the horizon, and even the people she had been mourning seemed to fade away as he held her in his arms.

Shawn made her feel safe, but not in the way she'd have expected safety to feel. It wasn't security that he lent her, rather, it was more the fact that he was normal, that his life, his personality, his past . . . it was all completely and utterly normal.

He was an escape from every bit of insanity that had plagued her from the minute she had received her Hogwarts letter.

Hermione thought that she could really use some normal in her life after the last seven years of insanity that she had been through.

"This is actually the first time my floor is comfortable enough to sleep on," he teased, his accent stronger than usual as he shifted behind her, tugging slightly at the plush fleece coverlet she'd dragged off the couch.

"That's just what every girl likes to hear," Hermione teased right back, nuzzling at his forearm, the only bit of him she could reach in this position.

"So," he said, chuckling as he spoke. "Where's my present?"

"Was I supposed to get you one of those?" she asked, rolling over to face him and raising an eyebrow in amusement. She fought the urge to laugh at the flash of disappointment that flitted across his eyes. For all his maturity and good looks, there was no doubt that Shawn truly was a kid at heart.

Deciding to put him out of his misery, she leaned forward and kissed him on the nose, and then said, "You like Quidditch, right? What am I saying, you're a wizard, of course you like Quidditch. I'm sort off preoccupied right now." She smirked, trailing a finger down his cheek as he beamed at her like a young boy left in a candy store overnight, before finishing, "But I got you all-access passes to this year's Oceania Quidditch League, including both the showpiece matches with teams from abroad."

His jaw dropped, his eyes wide, and she was pretty sure that had be not been lying down already that he'd have fainted. Hermione laughed at his reaction, and she mentally thanked Ron and Harry for instilling in her the deep value placed by all boys on Quidditch.

"I think," he managed to say after a while, "I may have topped your gift with my own."

"Oh really?" she asked, still amused and intrigued at the same time. He rolled onto her, propping himself up on his elbow as he caged her with his arms, and he looked directly into her arms as her spoke.

"I was going to take you there tomorrow, but I figure that I might as well tell you now."

"Tell me what?" she asked.

"Well, you know I work for the Oceania Times," he began, somewhat coyly, and she wondered what the newspaper had anything to do with her present. Her curiosity piqued, she cocked her head to the left as he opened his mouth to continue, a mischievous look in his eyes. "I had called in a favour with a mate from the Ministry Muggle Relations Department before taking my holiday leave this year, and he got back to me a few days ago."

"Muggle Relati –" Understanding dawned across her face, but she stifled her burgeoning hope, trying not to lose control as she said, "You've found them." It was a statement, not a question, and she felt her heart leap to her throat and remain wedged there as time seemed to slow.

Finally, after what seemed like years, Shawn Taylors gave her a Christmas miracle when he answered, "Wendell and Monica Wilkins live in Melbourne, Vista Street, to be exact."

.o0o.

"I know that look," said Mother with a wan smile, coming to stand beside him on the balcony. "Who is she, Draco?"

The estate was covered in thick drifts of snow, and both the pond and the pool had frozen over. Icicles hung from the bare trees, the rose gardens and hedges little more than brittle branches beneath the biting cold. It was strange for him to see the grounds in such a state, but his mother had been determined to fully cleanse their home of all lingering traces of dark magic.

The wards around the property, many of which had been contaminated with the corruption that had leached into the earth during Voldemort's stay in their Manor, had been taken down. Sadly, the spells that had kept the snow and cold out during the winter had gone with them, and by the time they had been recast . . . winter was already upon them.

His mother had opted to let nature in for once, citing to him that sometimes that was the easiest way to do away with the ashes of a past they would both sooner forget.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mother," he replied, perhaps too quickly, for she clasped her hand on his shoulder and gave him a look. It was a glance that he knew well, one that he'd always thought off as the _Mother always knows_ look.

"You're more like your father than you know," she said, smiling, and with a start he realised that she was looking up at him. When had he grown so tall? And more importantly, he thought, panic prickling at him as he noticed the first wrinkles setting into her smooth skin and the strands of grey that had begun to weave their way into her blonde hair, when had she begun to grow old? His mother frowned at him, and he schooled his features into an impassive mask.

"How so?" he asked, looking back out across the winter wonderland, ignoring her sigh. It wasn't the easiest of Christmases for either of them, not with his father currently rotting away in a cell. He wondered, perhaps more spitefully than he should have, why it had only been people on the losing side to have been prosecuted. Why had the Order of the Phoenix not been held accountable for all the families they had broken?

It was a foolish thought. He knew the nature of the war, especially that the Order had been fighting in self-defence . . . but did they really believe that every one of Voldemort's ranks had been there out of choice?

Abruptly, he realised his mother was still talking, and he tuned back into the conversation, hoping she wouldn't notice his lapse in concentration.

"You both never let your emotions show, you keep it hidden deep inside, but when you're in love." She laughed, a sound he hadn't heard in weeks, looking as though she was lost in fond memories before continuing. "Everyone at Hogwarts was able to tell that Lucius wanted to court me back then. It helped me make it especially difficult for him to succeed. I remember Andromeda and I once put stinging hexes on all the underwear in the boy's dormitories when he didn't catch the Snitch because he'd spent the match staring at me."

"Mother!" exclaimed Draco, scandalised, shifting uncomfortably at the very thought of such a prank.

"Don't Mother me, Draco," she said, the laughter never leaving her voice, "I was your age at one point in time too. But, other than my youthful jokes, my point is that you're doing the same thing. So, who's the lucky girl?"

"Does it really matter?" he asked, after keeping silent for a time. "It's just a . . . a passing fancy." Even as he spoke the words, he knew them to be a lie, and a quick glance told him that his mother wasn't in the least bit convinced.

"Is it?

"It is."

"Is it really? Or are you just afraid of losing her?"

"It's not that simple, Mother. She fought for the other side in the war . . . and we may have held her prisoner in our cellar at one point."

There was silence, his mother staring at him long and hard, her fingers wrapping around the balustrade as an uneasy look fell about her features. For a brief instance, she seemed to sour, her lips twisting as though she'd tasted something vile, before she asked:

"Is it that Mud– that Muggleborn, Granger?"

"Merlin, NO!" he almost choked, his eyes bugging out in his head as he stared at his mother as though she had taken leave of her senses. "How could you even think that? She was never in the cellar. We tortured her in the drawing room."

"Well, you do tend to complain about her every holiday," retorted Mother, sounding relieved at his answer. Then it seemed to dawn on her that although there had been several men and goblins held captive in their home throughout the war . . . there had only ever been one girl.

"Pandora's girl," said Narcissa, smiling as she turned to face him. "If she's anything like her mother, she'll forgive you without you even having to apologise. Now listen to me, Draco, if you really like this girl, then stop making excuses. She's pure of blood, and from the brief time I knew her whilst holding her captive, she's also pure of heart. Who knows, maybe she'll even help get rid of all the grumpiness you get from your father."

"It'll never work out, Mother."

"Says who?"

 **.o0o.**

"Wow, those gingers were so out of line that I wasn't sure whether to pity or laugh at them," giggled Amber, sipping at a flute of champagne as she soaked in his tub. The bubbles covered her sensual body, and she wasn't even looking at him as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.

"What do you mean?" he croaked, his fingers trembling across the counter. He'd gotten another headache after returning home after his disastrous visit to the Burrow, one that had been brewing since early this morning. It hadn't taken him long to dispel it with two vials of headache potion . . . but he was already feeling another one on its way.

He wondered if perhaps he needed to see a Healer about getting himself a prescription to headache potions. At the very least he'd been able to kick the constant fatigue that had been hanging over him since his holiday had begun – a drop of Becca's potion in his morning coffee was all that it took.

Harry didn't see anything wrong with having to shake a supplement every morning. Muggles did the same thing with their multivitamins, and after all, this was something along the very same lines.

"You're so modest," said Amber, artfully raising her leg into the air to run a sponge along it. "You're Harry Potter, the saviour of Wizarding Britain. They should be grateful that you took the time to visit their _house_."

"The Weasleys opened their home to me when I had nothing," he retorted sharply, cringing as his voice stabbed at his temples, the migraines gathering strength. "Don't talk about them like that."

He watched her open her mouth to say something, before seeming to decide it would be more fruitful to remain silent. Subtly, she pulled herself up from the water so that her breasts were no longer obscured by the bubbles, and a smirk began to play across he lips.

He almost screamed, desiring nothing more in that moment than to simply chuck her out into the street and let her freeze to death on his porch. Holding his tongue only because his head hurt too much to talk, he clenched his fingers around the edges of the sink and bit his lip, hoping that it would pass.

"You're not looking too good, sweetheart," crooned Amber, rising from the tub, foamy water running down her naked body as she stepped onto the floor and walked over to him. She pressed herself against his back, not caring that she was drenching his clothes, and he bit at his lower lip in irritation.

These girls had been fun, at first, but they didn't have the fire and tenacity he was looking for in a partner. They satisfied him, true enough, but they didn't challenge him. There'd never been any feelings exchanged between him and his lovers, the relationships had been nothing more than sex and tabloids.

It wasn't what he had wanted.

They weren't Ginny.

The realization came to him at the same time as a stabbing pain hit him in the centre of his brow, feeling like an icicle had burrowed its way into his brain and was trying to force its way in deeper. He gasped, almost falling to his knees, tears of pain forming in the corners of his eyes.

Amber cocked her head, a smirk crossing her face before she summoned her bag, wandlessly and non-verbally, not moving from her position. Her arms wove around his torso as he bit back another gasp, not shoving her away because she was currently all that kept him upright, and then she whispered into his ear.

"Does it hurt, Harry?"

He nodded, the motion sending waves of dizzying agony through his skull, but sound seemed to hurt him more. His lip trembled as she extracted two things from her bag before setting it aside. His buttons popped as she tugged at the front of his shirt with her free hand, the sound of each button clattering across the floor sounding like a clap of thunder.

"Do you want me to make it better?" she asked, her tongue running along the side of his neck. He felt the zipper of his jeans come undone, her hand slipping into his briefs as she pressed something long, white, and thin to his lips. He froze, realising what it was.

Hadn't he seen Dudley and Piers smoking these things when they were all fifteen and still naive to the true nature of the coming war?

She flicked her lighter, the dancing flame almost blinding him and she squeezed her other hand around his bollocks, forcing him to suck in air to not yelp in pain. The acrid smoke filled his mouth, some of it entering his throat and he coughed.

It felt as though he was choking to death, but somehow, his headache had also dimmed in its fury, if only slightly.

"Come on, Harry," Amber said with a feral, almost predatory grin, "Take another drag, doesn't it feel better already?"

He paused, unsure if it was worth the risk, when a fresh wave of wave washed over his head. Deciding that it wouldn't be that bad, he pulled on it again, not coughing nearly so much this time as he blew out the acrid smoke in a steady stream.

His headache was already fading by the time he had taken his third drag, the world around him seeming fluffy and mellow as he turned around the face her. His lower back dug into the counter, his hands curled around the edges of the sink as she leaned into him, taking a drag and blowing the smoke into his mouth.

Their lips met for a brief moment, and then he took the spliff from her. Before he knew it, she was kissing her way down his chest, and he grinned down at her as she began to smoke a pipe of a different sort.

 **.o0o.**

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _Really, all I want is for you all to observe the Aurors whilst they make an arrest today," said Robards, folding his arms and glaring at them. "You are to survey them and observe how they process a crime-scene."_

" _Sir," interjected Pierce with a frown, "There's a rumour that the suspect may be an operative of the Gemini Sisters, do you really want the trainees around in the case that it's true?"_

 _Robards growled. It was obvious that he was not accustomed to being questioned in his orders, but before he could responds Auror Pierce had approached him and the two were speaking in hushed, heated voices._

" _What I wouldn't give for an Extendable Ear right now," he groaned, running a hand through his hair as Neville chuckled appreciatively._

" _I'm not really sure how well that would work, Ron," Terry answered, when suddenly, Padma smacked him upside the head._

" _If you gits would shut up," she snapped, "Then maybe I'd be able to hear what they're saying." Ron stared at her for a moment, before suppressing laughter as he caught sight of the mobile Extendable Ear – or Bug, as George tended to call them – that she had attached to her ear, looking like a gross earring._

 _It must have been one of the last ones his brother had sold before the shop had been sacked._

 _The other part, a beetle shaped metallic sticker, was attached to Auror Piece's butt._

* * *

 _ **A/N: A very big thank you to all my reviewers so far. Wow, we're already at 101 reviews. You guys are great. I hope you've all enjoyed this so far. Chapter Eight will be up by this coming weekend, and will introduce the antagonists for the upcoming saga.**_

 _ **Till next time**_

 _ **-Shane**_


	9. For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **For Whom the Bell Tolls**

He woke to a pounding headache, the taste of vomit and Firewhisky on his tongue, streamers in his hair, and three women in his bed.

A low groan escaped his lips as he rolled out of bed, clutching at his heaving stomach with one hand whilst he massaged his temple with the other. Last night was nothing but a haze of blurry images, sweet sensations, and flashing lights, but he had more pressing concerns at present.

For one, finding out who were those strange ladies that were hogging his covers. He could just make out Amber's brunette curls, but he was sure that he'd never seen the blondes before. Then again, that first one did bear a striking resemblance to Charise . . . the model he'd used as a rebound after Becca.

Harry leaned against the en-suite door, his belly heaving, and he spared one more glance at the bed before stumbling to the toilet. It was a good thing too . . . no sooner had he dropped to his knees and positioned his head was he commemorating the New Year by offering up a sacrifice to the porcelain gods.

Spluttering, bits and pieces of the previous night started to flit back to him, but they remained vague and disjointed. It was almost as though he were in a Pensieve, looking through a memory with more holes than Swiss cheese, because nothing made sense.

There had been a party. He'd had a drink or two . . . or perhaps it had been ten, he wryly noted as he felt a fresh wave of puke rise up his throat. There'd been pain, perhaps one of his headaches – and Amber had made it go away with a spliff on the balcony. She seemed oddly knowledgeable about them.

His head hurt as he showered and got ready that morning, his eyes feeling grainy and almost raw whenever he opened them. Blinking to maintain some semblance of vision, Harry stumbled down the stairs and managed to croak, "Kreacher!"

"Yes, Master Harry?" said Kreacher, his voice tinged with disapproval as the sizzling sounds of bacon filled the air. The elf clicked his spindly fingers, and caused a mug of hot coffee to levitate across the room, coming to rest at the kitchen island right in front of Harry.

"Master is out of his blue potion," continued Kreacher, tossing a small bowl of what looked like mushrooms into a pan. "Kreacher has taken the liberty of using a Sobering Solution instead, and a few drops of Headache Potion to deal with master's migraines."

"Thank you, Kreacher," said Harry, truly grateful for the genuine care that his elf provided. More memories were beginning to clear in his mind's eye, and he could dimly remember Ron being at the party as well.

Cringing, Harry remembered his best friend walking past him without exchanging a single word. The Weasleys were obviously still sore about his argument with Ginny, but he didn't really see how he had been at fault. Sure, he may have gone a little overboard when he'd lost his temper and brought up Fred, but he distinctly remembered Ron losing his temper during the Horcrux Hunt and throwing his parents in his face.

Ginny had promised that they'd give things another go when she was done with school and he was done with training, and she'd broken that promise, hadn't she? He was not in the wrong for trying to find some semblance of happiness with Becca, and he didn't regret his brief relationship with her in the slightest.

She'd told him that love was pointless, just a weakness that got you hurt in the end, and she'd showed him how easy it all was to simply live life without attachments. It had only been Christmas when he'd truly realised how right she had been.

Ginny had promised him. He'd needed her – he'd wanted to be normal, to move on from the war and have a girlfriend he loved, a house to call his own, a career . . . the things normal guys wanted to have in life. And she'd thrown it all away just because Rita Skeeter had said a few spiteful things about her in the Daily Prophet.

He forced himself to believe his own version of events, because the truth was just much too painful for him to contemplate.

"Breakfast is ready, Master Harry," announced Kreacher, breaking him from his thoughts as a plate was set before him. "Would you like anything more?"

Staring down at the plate of bacon, eggs, and fried mushrooms, Harry smiled before reaching out to pat the elderly elf on the shoulder. To think that just over a year ago, Kreacher would have been content to murder him in his sleep – and now here he was, making him breakfast, and standing by his side.

"Do we have any more headache potion?" he asked, nibbling at a piece of bacon whilst speaking.

"Master Harry has already gone through all the vials Kreacher has bought. Kreacher shall have to buy more." The disapproving note was back in his voice, and Harry almost felt as though he was being chastened by the elf.

Amber must have been helping herself to his potions store, Harry reasoned. Kreacher had just stocked up his supplies the other day. There was simply no way he'd gone through so many vials in three days.

It was impossible.

"Kreacher," he asked after a while, his mouth full of what was probably the most delicious scrambled eggs he'd ever eaten – not that he'd ever admit to Molly Weasley that his gnarled elf could probably outcook her. "Do you have any idea what I did last night?"

Kreacher looked thoroughly disgusted, a gagging sound escaping his snout before he said, "Master Harry went to a New Year's Eve party with his hussy. He came home with more hussies. Kreacher decided to spend the night at Hogwarts with Bupo and Tuffy."

"Hussy?" he asked, amused. He'd pay to see Amber's face if she ever heard Kreacher call her that.

"Kreacher has served the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black for decades before entering the service of Master Potter," began the elf with a tone of finality. "Kreacher has been around long enough, and served enough generations to identify a hussy when he sees one, Master Harry."

"I see," he said, pressing his lips into a thin line to keep from bursting into laughter. Kreacher came forward, shuffling slightly, wringing his hands together.

"If Kreacher may be so bold, Master Harry, so as to speak frankly?"

"Why ask permission?" Harry replied with a snort. "It's all you ever do."

"Master Harry . . . hasn't been himself as of late," said Kreacher, his voice tinged with both displeasure and something that sounded oddly like sympathy. "The potions . . . they is not good for you, Master Harry, nor is the leaves you has taken to smoking. Master does not sleep. He barely eats. Kre–"

"That is enough, Kreacher," he snapped, causing the elderly elf to flinch as though slapped.

"Kreacher apologises, Master Harry. Kreacher is simply . . . worried for Master's health."

"I said, that's enough." Harry got to his feet, snatching up his potion as he stomped out of the room, feeling his headache begin to take hold of him once more.

 **.o0o.**

The shop was looking better than ever.

The paint was dry upon the walls and ceilings, the shelves and counters had been mounted, and the glass storefront had been restored. The signage had been installed, the floors had been covered in hardwood, and there was just the matter of restocking the store and finding staff left before he could finally reopen.

His Gringotts vault was significantly emptier than it had been at the beginning of the year as he'd spared no expense in the restoration of their flagship store. It wasn't a matter of money to George, because it represented much, much more than just a business venture.

It was more than just his passion, something which he loved doing.

It was about Fred, and he was certain that even if he placed every last ounce of gold upon a set of scales, there'd never be a chance of it balancing if Fred was on the other side. He was worth every coin spent and more.

He'd just finished installing the last wall of shelving in the storeroom a half-hour ago, and had chosen to simply take a breather. Sitting upon the floor with his back against the wall, he casually sipped at his flask of Firewhisky and ignored his brother's glare.

He was not an alcoholic, thank you very much, no matter what his parents and siblings may think. It was a coping mechanism – not a very good one, he knew, because it had very nearly destroyed him in those early months of grief, but it was the best he had at present.

"It's not even noon," said Percy, not sounding very impressed with him at all. His older brother was sitting on the floor watching him, arms folded, leaning against the end of a nearby shelf.

"If you want some, all you need to do is ask." George waggled his eyebrows, taking one last gulp before screwing the top back onto the flash and hooking it onto his belt. He grinned, reaching out to grab of slice of cold pizza from the box that lay between them. As an afterthought he asked, noticing that Percy hadn't eaten a single slice, "Aren't you hungry?"

"Remind me why you traipsed all the way to Muggle London for this when there's a cafe right across the street?" asked Percy, rolling his eyes as he grabbed a slice and tapped it with his wand. The pizza began to steam immediately, the congealed cheese melting anew as he bit into the end.

"Sad to say, but Muggle food is way more magical than the stuff our kind makes."

Percy's retort was cut off by the sound of the door being pushed open, and looking up, George grinned. It had been a few weeks since Angelina had last stopped by to see how he was getting on, and he'd begun to miss her, not that he'd admit it if anyone asked him.

Getting to his feet, he pulled her into a hug, ignoring her exclamation of surprise. He frowned at Percy looking up at them, appearing to be stifling laughter, before realising that Angelina was strangely still in his arms.

That's when he realised that the hug had gone on for a minute or two longer than it should, and so sooner did he realise that, did he remember he wasn't wearing a shirt. As he pulled away, his cheeks burning, the understanding that he probably stank after an entire morning of labour began to dawn.

No wonder Percy looked ready to start rolling across the floor laughing.

"Hello to you too, George," she said awkwardly, "Percy, nice to see you again. I didn't think you'd still be around." Recovering her composure, she hopped onto the counter, taking a seat and setting down the paper bag she'd brought with her.

"I'll be going back in from Monday, actually," said Percy, his amusement still evident in his voice. Then, as if he had just remembered something, he puffed up his chest, his voice taking on its usual pompousness as he spoke. "I'll be liaising with some pretty influential people this month. I'll be working with a delegation from Brazil in an attempt to rebuild our political ties after the war. It's a disaster, really, in terms of our political and economic standing with the rest of the world."

"Perce, we get it, the stick is about to be reinserted up your arse," pointed out George, in what he thought was a helpful voice. Angelina laughed, and Percy let out a snort of exasperation before falling silent.

"Audrey takes my job seriously," Percy muttered under his breath. George whipped back around, his eyes widening and he realised by the look in his brother's eyes that Percy had not meant to say that out loud. It was obvious that he was not supposed to hear that either.

Neither was Angelina, obviously, who responded by choking on the salad she'd been eating.

"Who's Audrey?" he asked, winking in a purposefully exaggerated manner. "Is she one who confuses you with food and bites you all the time?"

"Shut up."

"Why haven't we met this Audrey?" he pushed. "I think Mum would quite like having another daughter-in-law to complain about."

"I will hurt you." Percy glared, eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare tell Mum! You know how she gets." Angelina was silent, looking as though she was working something out in her mind, but George didn't pay her any mind.

It was so much more fun to taunt Percy again. To anyone looking at them, it may seem cruel and unkind, but it was the way they'd always been. It was the relationship they'd built between them over the years . . . and he knew, just as Percy knew, that despite the sniping, teasing, and mocking, they'd take a killing curse for the other.

Still, he'd really have to meet this Audrey . . . if only to see what kind of woman would willingly have sex with his brother. Who knew, maybe cauldron thickness turned her on?

 **.o0o.**

 _Says who?_

His mother's words echoed through his head, just as they had since she'd first spoken them on Christmas day, and he swallowed. It was just nerves, he reasoned, feeling the hair rise up along the back of his neck, but it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Never before had he felt so on edge, and he'd lived through having his home invaded by Death Eaters and a Dark Lord. It was as though his stomach had been transfigured into a live snake that was coiling in upon itself, whilst all the while his heart drummed out the chorus to the latest Weird Sisters song in his chest.

Eventually, he managed to find his friend's compartment, and with a start he realised that it was directly opposite the one inhabited by Luna and her friends. The She-Weasel and her underage prey were there, so caught up in each other that they missed Luna's wave, and by extension, his smile in response.

He really didn't need Ginevra Weasley giving him an earful about how he needed to keep his distance from Luna, thank you very much. She'd made her views on their partnership clear from the start, and the bottom line was that she wasn't his biggest fan.

It would seem she still held a grudge over that diary mishap from his second year, for some strange reason. Sure, she'd almost died . . . but if he remembered correctly, Ginevra had very nearly killed him during the Battle of Hogwarts. Shouldn't that, at the very least, balance the scales?

"Really, Draco, could you be any more obvious?" asked Pansy when he finally slipped into the compartment. He frowned at her, instantly noticing how hypocritical she was being when he noticed that she was almost on Blaise's lap.

His friend seemed quite delighted by this turn of events, given that he had an arm slung around Pansy's shoulders and a hand on her thigh. Draco, for the life of him, did not want to know.

"Just keep it in her dorm," he sighed, taking a seat and leaning back against the window pane.

"Don't be so crass, Draco," Pansy replied, her sugary tone shifting into a gentler, much warmer voice when she added, "It's good to see you again. Enjoyed the holidays?"

"Was alright," he said with a shrug. Blaise grunted, opening his mouth to speak, when suddenly, Pansy smacked her palm across his mouth. He glared, grunting again before rolling his eyes and settling back into his seat.

"He has a throat infection," supplied Pansy. "And you don't talk," she snapped, turning to Blaise, "Draco can see you're glad to see him. There's no need to serenade us all with your bromance."

"You really are a people person, aren't you, Pansy?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

"So says the boy who's spending his time making goo-goo eyes at the blonde in the next compartment. You realise she's not blind, right?"

"I am not making goo-goo eyes at her. I was simply," he paused, thinking of a suitable excuse, when Blaise snorted, letting out a rough, hacking cough that sounded vaguely like laughter. "Shut up," he finally said, folding his arms and pouting out the window.

A cry of mirth split the air and he whirled, a broad smile crossing his cheeks as he caught sight of Luna laughing. Then, he turned back to his friends, both of them were smirking in victory.

"I hate you both."

Their smirks grew.

"You know what!" he snapped, getting to his feet. "I'm going to prove to you all that there will never be anything between Lovegood and I!" He slammed open the compartment door, and his cheeks still burning redder than a Weasley's hair, he rapped his knuckles against her compartment door.

The She-Weasel extricated herself from her jailbait's embrace, and her expression soured as she caught sight of him. He glared right back, gesturing to Luna that he wanted to speak to her. She got to her feet, and the sound of muffled arguing could be heard through the thick glass, before Luna eventually said something that shut the redhead up.

The compartment door slid open and she stepped out, and she raised one perfect, blonde eyebrow, and said, "You wanted to talk?"

"I did." His voice was gruff, the irritation still present, even as it gradually dimmed away. He wanted to remain cross, he did, but he just couldn't help the way his heart rate increased at her smile.

"About?"

"I . . . I can't be friends with you anymore," he blurted out, feeling almost horrified as the words left his mouth. His mouth seemed to take of a mind of its own, and his voice rose as he continued, "You're eccentric, and you're pretty, and you're freakishly intuitive, and you're sweet –"

"He realises he's complimenting her, right?" Draco froze in mid speech, hearing Pansy's words like a slap in the face.

"Is Malfoy having some sort of seizure?" asked She-Weasel from her compartment, and with a looming sense of horror he realised that almost everyone in their segment of the train was sticking their heads into the passage to eavesdrop. Mortified though he was, he was a Malfoy, and he turned back to face Luna, almost wincing as he took in how serene she looked.

"And if I'm all those things?" she asked, stepping closer and cupping his cheeks with her hands. "Why can't you be my friend?"

"Because I want to be more than that," he murmured. It was as though the weight of the world had been lifted of his shoulders, and he swallowed again, nibbling at his lower lip as he waited for her to react.

Her smile was growing . . . smiling was good, wasn't it?

"You're perfect," he said softly, "And I'm scared because I think I'm falling in love with you." Then he plucked up his courage and pressed his lips to hers. It was awkward at first, almost as though he needed to find their rhythm, but soon enough he felt as though he'd been hit with a Jelly-Legs jinx.

She tasted of Butterbeer and Pumpkin Pasties, and all too soon, they broke apart. Tenderly, he stroked his fingers across her cheek, clearing her hair from her face.

"You're not the only one who's scared," she whispered. "But I'm willing to take the risk if you are."

Of course, that was the exact moment when Ginevra decided to open her oversized mouth. Merlin, how he longed to strangle her and be done with it.

"Luna! What the hell was that?"

"We'll talk at Hogwarts, the usual place?" Luna said, and he nodded before turning back to his compartment, just as she was dragged back into hers.

Draco smirked as he walked back to his friends, the She-Weasel's frantic line of questioning a harmony to his ears. Pansy raised an eyebrow, her expression smug, and folded her arms. Blaise stared, mouth hanging agape, looking as if he was unable to process what he had just seen.

"So?" asked Pansy when he reached them, her own smirk deepening.

"She kissed back." He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant about it, and it didn't take a mirror for him to know that he was failing miserably. He broke into a wide grin, and the faintest of blushes tinged his cheeks.

Who could blame him, really?

She'd kissed him back.

 **.o0o.**

"Really, all I want is for you all to observe the Aurors whilst they make an arrest today," said Robards, folding his arms and glaring at them. "You are to survey them and observe how they process a crime-scene."

"Sir," interjected Pierce with a frown, "There's a rumour that the suspect may be an operative of the Gemini Sisters, do you really want the trainees around in the case that it's true?"

Robards growled. It was obvious that he was not accustomed to being questioned in his orders, but before he could responds Auror Pierce had approached him and the two were speaking in hushed, heated voices.

"What I wouldn't give for an Extendable Ear right now," he groaned, running a hand through his hair as Neville chuckled appreciatively.

"I'm not really sure how well that would work, Ron," Terry answered, when suddenly; Padma smacked him upside the head.

"If you gits would shut up," she snapped, "Then maybe I'd be able to hear what they're saying." Ron stared at her for a moment, before suppressing laughter as he caught sight of the mobile Extendable Ear – or Bug, as George tended to call them – that she had attached to her ear, looking like a gross earring.

It must have been one of the last ones his brother had sold before the shop had been sacked.

The other part, a beetle shaped metallic sticker, was attached to Auror Pierce's butt. Ron winced at the sight, wondering how long Padma had kept the Bug around. His brother's store had been closed for almost a year, and the Bugs had only hit the shelves about a month before the store had been sacked.

Then again, he supposed that they had come in very handy for the D.A during the war.

Two hours later, it appeared as though Robards was getting his way, and it was with a looming sense of excitement that Ron donned his Auror gear for what was to be his first day out in the field. Sure, he'd just be observing, but it was better than spending his entire day training.

Ignoring Harry's complaints – he honestly didn't know what was going on with his friend these days, but after the last three times he'd tried to check on Harry, he'd decided to simply give it up and let his friend sort himself out – Ron turned to find Padma waiting at the door with a grim look on her face.

"Is nobody curious about who these Gemini Sisters are?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"Not really." Terry shrugged, and Ron nodded in agreement. Harry didn't seem to be listening, and Neville had already disappeared after receiving an urgent memo from Kingsley to meet him in his office.

"Men, I swear," Padma groaned, "It's not like they'd be interested in twin sisters who run the biggest prostitution and drug-smuggling rings in Britain, now would they?"

"Why didn't you just lead with that?" asked Terry. Ron frowned, curious, and gestured for Padma to go on whilst he laced up his boots.

"I didn't hear that much from Pierce and Robards," admitted Padma, "But I heard enough to know that these girls are bad news. They're Greys."

"What's a Grey?" asked Harry. Again, Ron noticed the distinct changes in his friend – sunken eyes, unhealthily pale skin, red tinged eyes, and a mane of tangled hair. It wouldn't be long before Robards hauled him into his office, he knew, and he hoped that Harry pulled himself together before his career was put on the line.

"Only the biggest criminal family in Europe," snorted Terry, "Didn't the lot of you pay attention in History of Magic?"

"I mostly napped," answered Ron with a shrug.

Once they were all kitted up and ready to go, he found himself Apparating to the roof of a Muggle building. With a start, he realised how high in the air he was, the Muggles below looking almost like ants.

"You lot are to wait here whilst Savage and I capture the suspect. When we're done, I'll send up a Patronus and you can come in to observe evidence collection, amongst other things," said Rhea Pierce, drawing her wand, and descending into the depths of the building. The quick look he was awarded of it before the door closed again was enough to tell him that it was deserted, the building having long since fallen into dilapidation.

Ron nodded, his throat going dry as the full reality of the situation began to sink in. This wasn't a game anymore, this was very real. As if to emphasise the point, a shriek of pain tore through the air. His eyes darted to his friends, his realization reflected in their expressions.

It sounded like Auror Pierce.

"We have to go help them!" exclaimed Harry, when Padma grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back.

"You heard Rhea," she said, though her voice wavered, "We're to stay here."

"We also just heard her scream," pointed out Ron.

"She's a fully trained Auror who knocked us all on our arses at the same time during training," said Terry, "If they're duelling down there, we'll just get in her way."

"We can't just stand here and do nothing," yelled Harry.

Just as Ron was about to retort about how every time Harry had leapt into action in the past someone had died, the door burst off its hinges, and Savage came hurtling through. A shield charm exploded between them as a trio of hexes were hurled their way, and Rhea backed out the door, duelling three men at once.

" _Incisura_!" she bellowed, swiping her wand through the air, a purple arc of light flashing from it. Ron froze, horrified, as he watched the curse slice of the leftmost man's arm, bone and all. That was dark magic . . . he was sure of it.

A jet of orange light flashed his way, but luckily for him Padma had already moved to deflect it, knocking it aside with a stinging hex. Terry moved alongside her, the two of them moving in unison to cast, blasting the burliest of their attackers back through the door and down the stairs.

Still frozen and unable to act, Ron watched as the final man seemed to realise that the odds were stacked against him.

" _Avada Ked_ –"

" _Confringo,"_ said a voice, and the man never got the chance to cast the killing curse, a gaping hole exploding across his chest.

Turning, Ron stared, wide-eyed, at Harry, who simply shrugged and said, "You're welcome."

 **.o0o.**

The drive to Melbourne had been a long one, and although she had been all for Apparating and reaching her parent's new home as quickly as possible, Shawn had insisted on a road trip. Realising that it made more sense since she'd be able to carry more things with her, she'd acquiesced. It was the safer option, she knew, especially since Apparating into a strange and unknown place could cause her to Splinch, or worse, Apparate into a brick wall.

Still, Melbourne was over a thousand miles away.

Thankfully, she'd gotten her driver's license the summer after she'd turned seventeen, and they'd been able to take turns.

It had been only when they'd neared the city that she'd noticed the way Shawn constantly rubbed at his scars, sometimes scratching at them as if they itched. Growing curious, she thought back to Christmas, and the way he'd changed the subject when she'd asked about his family.

Deciding that now was as good a time as any to press the subject she'd so easily let go earlier that month, she turned to look at him from the passenger seat.

"What's wrong?" she asked, frowning as his jaw tensed. She'd never really seen him look so . . . so stressed and on edge.

"It's a long story, Hermione," he replied, glaring at the road ahead as though it had dealt him a personal injury.

"I've got time," she said with a shrug, "And it's not as though I'm going anywhere." His fingers clenched around the steering wheel, and she wouldn't be surprised had she seen a vein throbbing in his temple.

"My mother's family is from Melbourne," he answered after a long pause.

"Did you have some sort of falling out with them?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. She'd grown too lax in Australia, she realised. It had been obvious, right from the start, that there was more to Shawn that met the eye . . . and she'd been so caught up in the normalcy of their relationship that she'd never bothered to investigate.

Well, better late than never.

"You could say that." Shawn laughed drily. "They tried to smother me in my crib."

She gasped, and she was thankful that he was the one driving, because she was sure that had she been the one behind the wheel they'd have swerved off the road. Hermione didn't know what was worse, that his own family had tried to kill him as a child . . . or the blasé, almost deadened way in which he said it.

It was almost as though the emotions had been leached out of him by the topic of his family, and he had become someone cold and distant, lacking his usual charm and cheeriness.

In that moment she hated them, his family, even though she'd never met them. Shawn was one of the best people she knew, and to think he came from a family so cruel was horrific – but, she realised, there must be more to the story.

"Why?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"My mother is a Pureblood, my father is a Muggle, and I was born on the wrong side of the blanket," he said, "When my Mother found out that I wasn't her husband's son . . ." he trailed off, drawing a thumb across his throat.

"My Aunt Lena smuggled me out of the house and gave me to my Dad. He used to surf, just like me, but well." Shawn fingered his scars, his expression cold as he finished, "My mother and grandmother always had an affinity for sharks. I survived . . . Dad didn't."

"Shawn . . . I," Hermione began, only to be silenced by his raised hand.

"I'd rather not dwell on the subject," he said, "And anyway, we're here."

With a start, Hermione realised the car had stopped. Her heart flew into her throat, and when she turned towards the house they'd parked next to, she felt tears prickle at her eyes.

Her parent's home.

She was nearly there, so close that she could almost smell her mother's perfume and taste her father's Sunday morning pancakes. Shawn's problems seemed to fade away to the back of her mind, but nevertheless she turned back to him, nodding gratefully when he simply said, "Go on."

"Come with me?" she asked softly, her fingers feeling too stiff to open her door.

"Sure," he agreed, and soon enough he was helping her up the path to the front door. Every step felt like a mile to Hermione, and even though it was another country, she picked up little things that defined her parents for who they were. The flowerpots in the windowsill, the pale blue of the wall, the swing upon the porch . . . they were the things her parents loved.

She was an entire ocean away from Britain, but as she wrung the doorbell, she finally felt home.

A smiling, dark-skinned woman opened the door, wearing a pair of khakis and a floral print blouse. Hermione couldn't help but frown at her, wondering who she was, but when she opened her mouth to ask she realised that her tongue had become tied. She couldn't form a single word thanks to her nerves.

"We're looking for Wendell and Monica Wilkins," said Shawn, grasping her hand, and she swallowed, bracing herself to finally meet her parents again for the first time in a year.

"I'm sorry," said the woman, "But Mister Wilkins passed away six months ago, and –"

 _No._

 _No!_

 _NO!_

She felt Shawn's hand tighten around hers, and her throat constricted as though she were being strangled. Her blood seemed to have been replaced by acid, a searing pain tearing her apart from the inside out, and she quavered, beginning to tremble.

Realising that the woman was still talking, she tried to tune back into the conversation, just as another woman appeared into her line of sight.

"Mum," whispered Hermione, but the woman stared blankly at her, before raising a single finger and pointing, and then letting out a piercing scream. She screamed and screamed, her wispy white hair fluttering around her gaunt cheeks, and the woman in the door made to close the door.

"Madam Wilkins is very ill, young lady," said the woman. "I cannot have you upsetting her like this."

"Who . . . who exactly are you?" asked Shawn, his voice strained, thankfully still able to speak because she herself had lost the ability.

"I'm Miss Meade, her caregiver," answered the lady sourly, again trying to close the door as Shawn held it open, whilst her mother screamed and screamed. "Now please leave before you upset my patient any more than you already have, or I'll be forced to call the police."

"Can you at least tell me what's wrong with her?" Hermione begged, "Just tell me, and I'll leave."

The woman hesitated, before nodding once. "The same thing that had her husband take a power drill to his head, young lady, she's Schizophrenic."

The door slammed in her face, and like a zombie she turned, walking away. Everything seemed to have collapsed upon her like a house of cards, because her sins had finally caught up with her, and the piper had been paid.

This was not the price she was willing to pay.

Her own soul, her own life, she'd give it up in a heartbeat . . . but not this, never this.

"Hermione!" Shawn yelled, grabbing her as she walked away. "It'll be OK. We can get a Healer. We'll fix her."

"No!" she screamed, strands of hair sticking to her tearstained cheeks. Her heart had already come undone, ripping itself apart as the weight of the world crashed upon her trembling shoulders. "None of this is OK! My father's dead, my mother's insane, and it's all my fault. My fault."

Had Shawn not grabbed her she would have fallen to the ground, and she shrieked in agony, tears falling freely as he held her up. Her entire body shook, trembling like a leaf caught in a strong gale. She'd killed her own father. She'd broken her mother's mind. Muggles weren't strong enough to survive their world . . . and she'd gambled their safety on a spell so powerful it had broken them.

She'd destroyed them.

And there was no way of undoing the spell. Magic could only do so much . . . it couldn't fix damage so severe, it couldn't bring back the dead.

The murder weapon may not be in her hands, but his blood still stained her palms all the same.

"I wanted to keep them safe!" She struggled, fighting to escape Shawn's hold. He hissed as her nails dug into his flesh, drawing blood, but didn't let her go. She fought, she screamed, she begged. Car alarms began to go off up and down the street, the wind picking up around them as she started to lose control of her magic. Streetlights sparked, the glass shattering as the bulbs burst, but he held her.

He refused to let her go. Shawn clung on, bearing her rage and her anguish, standing strong against everything she hurled against him and the world around them. At last, after what was probably five minutes but instead felt like hours, she felt herself go limp in his arms, her magical reserves drained.

"I wanted to keep them safe," she sobbed as he stroked her hair. "Not this . . . never this."

"I know," he murmured, lifting her into his arms and carrying her towards his car. She didn't want to be moved, she wanted to remain in the middle of the Muggle street until she turned to stone, but residents were already peeking through the curtains for the source of the disturbance.

They needed to leave.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked as he buckled her seatbelt for her. Hermione looked at him, a strange numbness coming over her.

She'd known the feeling of a broken heart before, but this was the first time she truly felt as though her heart would never again piece itself together.

"Just drive," she whispered.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_

 _ **So, there's no sneak peak in this chapter, mostly because we'll be having a new POV from the next chapter, and saying goodbye to one of the established POV's for a while as her arc has come to an end.**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers and reviewers, you guys are awesome. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I really hope I've done justice to Hermione's pain in that last bit.**_

 _ **As always, reviews and concrit are always appreciated.**_

 _ **Until Next Time**_

 _ **-Shane**_


	10. Virgin Hearts

**Disclaimer: The views aired by the characters do not reflect those of the writer.**

* * *

 **Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Virgin Hearts**

* * *

Firewhisky slopped down his chin as he drained his glass, and without even setting it down, he tapped it twice as a signal to refill. His throat felt raw as he downed the shot, blinking as the pub grew a little more blurry around him.

A camera flashed, and he scowled at the photographer across the room. No doubt he'd be splashed across the tabloids come the morning paper, and he would bet every Galleon in Gringotts that Skeeter would have plenty to say about him as well.

For once, he didn't really give a damn about the publicity.

His recent suspension from the Auror Department weighed heavy on his mind, and his scowl deepened as he remembered the satisfied smirk Robards had worn on his face when he'd signed his order of suspension. To say that Harry had been angry would be an understatement.

He'd been absolutely livid.

So what if he'd killed one criminal? He'd saved Ron's life, hadn't he? And more to the point, the suspect hadn't been the first person that he'd killed. Hell, almost every single one of the people in his Hogwarts year had been made murderers by the war. He wondered what Robards had been doing whilst he'd been on the Horcrux hunt . . . Given that he'd remained Head Auror throughout the war, he'd probably spent the time sucking up to the Death Eaters.

Yes, he knew that he was thinking in an irrational manner, but his pounding headache was making logical thought impossible.

Thankfully, Kreacher kept his cupboard well stocked with headache potions, among other things, and it was easy enough to keep his headaches at bay for the most part. The energy potion that Becca had left him – it had taken visits to four different apothecaries until he'd eventually swallowed his pride and visited one on the outskirts of Knockturn Alley, before he'd been able to find out what it was and purchase more – was allowing him to keep up with his busy schedule.

Even without having to show up at the Ministry for Auror training, there proved to be no end to his tasks. The war had raged for little over three years, yet Harry sometimes wondered if it would take thirty for them to repair the damage it had wrought.

His life had become a steady monotony, but it was not the normalcy he had craved.

"You look like shit," said Rhea Pierce, interrupting his thoughts, and slipping into the seat across from him whilst nursing a Firewhisky.

"You're one to talk," he retorted, curling his fingers around the base of his glass to hide the slowly dissolving green pill from view. It would never do for Rhea, his superior at work, to see one of Amber's Muggle prescriptions.

They weren't harmful or illegal, or anything like that, mind you, but he didn't really think she'd understand, Pureblood that she was. Just like the weed that Amber procured for them, the pills were just another simple Muggle device to help him with his headaches and fatigue.

"Well, I'm on suspension pending a disciplinary hearing because of that debacle," she replied, rolling her eyes at him. "Apparently, slicing off the arm of somebody who's trying to kill you is frowned upon."

"So is blowing open their chest," he said wryly, raising his glass in a sarcastic attempt at a toast. "At least I'll just be on probation when I get back."

"I'd watch my step if I were you, Potter," she commented, "You may have a fan club bigger than Celestina Warbeck's, but too many missteps and the Auror Department will wash its hands of you."

"Is that a threat?" he shot back, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't sure exactly what it was that was making him so angry, but there was something about her tone that put him on the defensive. The urge to slap the knowing look off her face had never been greater, but he swallowed, forcing it down as he gulped his drink.

"You should know by now that I don't make threats," said Rhea, getting to her feet. "It was a warning. Now stop looking so glum, you still have a month before you need to return."

Then, just as he was about to lose control and give her a piece of his mind, she leaned forward and hugged him. His eyebrows knitting together in confusion, and he all but yelped at the sharp pain that suddenly burst out across the small of his back as if he'd been stung by a bee. Roughly, he shoved her away, and patted at the throbbing part skin.

When he brought his hand back, his fingers were smudged with the barest specks of blood. Looking back up to confront Rhea, his grimace deepened as he realised that she'd already left.

Sitting back down, he carefully measured out five drops of his energy potion, and stirred it into his Firewhisky. The taste was strange, almost cloying, and he wondered if mixing the potion with alcohol had really been such a good idea.

Somehow, his brief altercation had only intensified his headache, and he needed all the relief he could get. Obviously, he'd had too much to drink as well, his vision steadily growing more and more blurry. Sounds seemed to come at him in slow motion, the entire world fading into a medley of colour and emotion as he rose to his feet. Sweat beading across his forehead, he Dissaparated, eager to return home and have a luxurious soak in his tub.

With a crack, he arrived in his living room, letting out a howl as the world swam around him, and pain shot through his body. He crumpled, the carpet squelching wetly beneath him, and with a growing sense of horror he realised that he'd collapsed into a puddle of his own blood.

"Kreacher," he croaked, noticing his Splinched arm lying on the sofa across the room as the entire world went black.

 **.o0o.**

" _Luna_ ," _he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek, his hand disappearing down her jeans. She let out a throaty moan, yanking at his shirt and popping the buttons, her nails trailing across his pale skin._

" _Draco," she replied, her lips parting to grant his tongue access. His back pressed firmly against the headboard, he felt her hands on the buckle of his trousers, and he groaned in response._

" _Make love to me," she whispered, her breath ghosting across his cheeks as she laid back, letting him crawl over her, kissing at every inch of her bare skin. "No, stop!"_

 _It was odd. Her voice was beginning to sound less gentle, and much . . . bitchier?_

" _Merlin, get your fingers out of there," yelled Luna, and he stared, not understanding what was going on as she slapped him, the sound of flesh smacking against flesh filling the room._

" _Why do you sound like Pansy? Why . . . Why do you look like Pansy? Holy fucking Merlin, Pansy!"_

"I can't do this!" she screamed, "Oh Merlin, I can't."

His eyes flared open, and he clutched at his thudding chest, his breath escaping in short, raw pants. What a nightmare. It had started off sweet enough, if a little naughty, but the horror of watching the image of Luna shift into Pansy was one that he was sure would stay with him till he died.

Then, with a startled yelp, he came to the understanding that the dream was, in some way, real.

It just – thankfully – did not involve him.

Pansy's protests were punctuated by the sound of someone running out their dormitory, followed closely by their door slamming shut. Wait . . . Why had Pansy been in the boy's dormitory at such a late hour, and more importantly, why had she been screaming?

Maybe it was just one of those strange waking dreams, he reasoned, even though he didn't believe it for a minute. His sleep-deprived mind could not, for the life of him, discern what had been going on that had interrupted his beauty sleep.

Rubbing at his eyes, he yawned before rolling out of bed with all the grace of a wounded hippogriff. The room was still dark, and a quick glance out the window told him that even the merpeople were still asleep.

Yawning again, he raised his wand and squinted about the darkness for the source of the disturbance. He wasn't too worried, all things considered, because if it was indeed an enemy sent to murder them all in their sleep, then there wouldn't be much chance of him being woken by screaming at all.

The Death Eaters had been nothing if not thorough.

He hoped that he'd be able to find out what was wrong sooner rather than later, because loathe as he was to admit it, he knew full well how much he needed his sleep. If he didn't get back to bed soon, there was a strong chance he'd spend the next day looking like a wet rat.

Fumbling about in the dark wouldn't accomplish anything, he finally reasoned, but how was he to light up a room without candles or oil lamps? A few seconds later, he mentally kicked himself.

 _Honestly, Draco,_ _are you a wizard or not?_

" _Lumos_." He flicked his wand once he was done berating himself for letting his tiredness cloud his rational thinking skills, blinking to accustom himself to the bright glare of his lighting charm.

"What the bloody hell is going on, Blaise?" he snapped, his gaze falling on his wide-eyed friend. "The fuck are your clothes? It's freezing for Merlin's sake! Why'd I hear Pans–" He paused, the pieces falling together, and he didn't need a mirror to know that his face had taken on an expression of utmost disgust.

Blaise shrugged, his expression contrite and sheepish, and said, "We didn't think we'd wake you."

Draco took a deep breath to try and calm himself, his cheeks burning as he sat on the edge of the nearest bed, which just happened to have once belonged to Theo. Running a hand through his sleep tousled hair, he glared at his friend.

"Please tell me you weren't going to shag while I was sleeping two beds away."

"It never stopped me before," pointed out Blaise. "I mean, sure it was trickier when Theo and the dunderhead duo were still rooming with us, because then there were four of you asleep, but Freya and I made it work. Stop looking so scandalised. Hell, Theo and Daphne used to go at it in your bed whenever you had Quidditch practice, and you were none the wiser."

Storing that bit of information away for another time, mostly because we didn't think he'd be able to process it right now, he decided to ask the more obvious question.

"And Pansy ran out screaming, why exactly?"

"Well, I had just managed to get my second finger–"

"Without details, Blaise."

"OK, so she was twisting my ni–"

"You know what, I don't want to know," Draco interrupted him, deciding that it would be easier for him to just speak to Pansy in the morning. Just to check if she was alright, of course, because running screaming from a room was definitely not in character for her. Making other people run screaming, sure, but to do it herself? Something was definitely wrong.

He was about to climb back into his bed when he remembered what Blaise had said about Theo and Daphne – he wondered when they'd gotten together, and more to the point, if they were still together, and if that was why he hadn't heard from either of them since the war – before thinking better of it. Glaring suspiciously at the mattress, he grabbed his pillow and marched down to the common room.

Hopefully, he'd be able to find a comfortable – unchristened – couch.

 **.o0o.**

She dragged herself into the Gryffindor common room, breathing a weary sigh as she fell back onto the nearest couch. As usual, she'd stayed at the Quidditch pitch longer than the rest of her team, working herself until her bones ached.

With it being that time of the year when the Quidditch scouts began visiting Hogwarts to scope out the potential talent, she couldn't afford to not be at her best. Her mother had always told her that if she wanted something in life, nobody would simply hand it to her on a silver platter, and that she'd need to work as hard as she could.

It was simple advice, and it had served each and every one of her brothers well, so there was no logical reason for why it wouldn't work for her.

There was also something extremely satisfying about pretending that the hoops were Draco Malfoy's face, and every successful goal on her part was shoving one down his throat. Luna may have fallen for his tricks, but Ginny could tell that Malfoy was simply using her friend to fool people into thinking that he'd changed after the war.

People like him would never change.

Perhaps her grudge was personal considering that his father's schemes had very nearly killed her in her first year, but that was just another score in her favour. That wretched family was not to be trusted. Harry had been an idiot – well, more so than he had been in the past few months – to testify in their favour. Malfoy, his mother, the whole bloody lot of them should be rotting in Azkaban with his father.

"Glare at the fireplace any longer, and I'm pretty sure the flames are gonna shrivel up and die," said a familiar voice, and she started, a smile breaking across her face as she caught sight of Dennis sitting cross-legged on the corner armchair, half-hidden by the shadows.

"You make me sound so terrifying," she replied with a soft giggle. Getting to her feet and crossing the room, she sank into his lap. Pressing a quick kiss to his temple, she asked, "Don't you have a test tomorrow?"

"Herbology," he answered, flashing her with a boyishly cheerful grin that she saw through in seconds. "I couldn't sleep."

She reached out to cup his cheek, knowing the thoughts that plagued him without having to look any deeper than his eyes. It was a pain that she had felt, just as he had, a shared loss.

They war had cost them both brothers, and in a way, their shared grief had been what had first drawn them together.

"For the longest time," she began, shaking her head and choosing her words with as much care as she could, "I couldn't sleep, let alone function, without Fred. I can only imagine how hard it must have been for George.

It hurts, Dennis, but you can't let the pain stop you from living. You have to make every breath count, because we're living for them, as well as ourselves."

"Not everyone heals as fast as you do, Ginny," he said, "I'll be fine, but if you don't mind, can we talk about something a little less depressing?"

"If that's what you want." She knew better than to press the issue, because he'd been right. As brash and bold as she was, she knew that people grieved in their own ways. Look at her family. Percy had been a wreck for months after they'd lost Fred, and he'd been the brother she'd have expected to have felt the loss the least. Look at Hermione. She'd dropped off the face of the earth in search of her own solace.

Surviving the war was one thing, but it was another concept entirely to live through the peace, especially now that their lives had all been stained by loss.

Her thoughts were banished by his lips on hers, his arms enveloping her as she nipped at his lower lip in response. Kissing Dennis was unlike anything she'd ever felt. It wasn't that he was _better_ than her former boyfriends, though Merlin knew that Harry had been as clueless as they came, but rather, it was that his kiss was innocent.

It was a little clumsy, and a little awkward, but it more than made up for those things in genuine sweetness.

As if taking on a mind of its own, her arm snaked beneath the hem of his shirt, her fingertips burning as they traced bare skin. He gasped in response, and his kiss grew hungrier, his movements more erratic. Soon enough, they were on their feet and stumbling up the stairs to his dormitory.

Pressed against the door, she ignored her better judgement, and muttered, "Your roommate?"

"Jimmy's in the Hospital Wing," he replied, and the door clicked open, slamming shut seconds later as they tumbled into the nearest bed – which she dearly hoped was his.

His kisses grew more frantic as clothes were shed, and she ignored the nagging sensation that they shouldn't be in such a rush to get physical, grinding into his body as he kicked off his pyjama bottoms. It was more than a little awkward, she felt, but she didn't dare stop, lest the carefully crafted illusion of normalcy and desire be shattered. Her hand trailed down his body, fingers brushing the blond fuzz running down his navel, and with a final gulp of apprehension, her palm pressed against his cotton-clad erection.

Her first thought was that Dennis definitely wasn't the little kid who'd fallen into the Black Lake on the night of his Sorting anymore. Her second, much more serious thought, was _am I ready for this?_

Then Dennis froze against her, letting out a mortified yelp, and she felt a slick dampness against her palm. Pulling her hand away and realising what had happened, she was hit with the all too real realization that he was just fifteen, and that, she herself was definitely not ready to take this step.

"Are you alright?" she asked, wiping her hand into the sheets.

"I er. . . I need to change into a clean pair of briefs," he admitted in a hushed whisper, pulling away and flushing bright red.

She fought back the urge to laugh, not wanting to embarrass him further, and then breathed a sigh of relief. It was perhaps a little cruel for her to be so thankful that his orgasm had ended up being premature, but it had at least saved her having to voice that she wasn't ready.

"Maybe we should take this slow," she said, turning over to spare his dignity as he tumbled out of his bed. "This could well just be a sign that we aren't ready for sex."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It . . . it happens, I guess. And there's a lot more to relationships than just sleeping together, so maybe we shouldn't try to skip ahead."

"I guess we could try that," he replied, the bed dipping as he perched on the edge, and when she turned over she was grateful that he'd pulled his pyjamas back on. "Right after I throw myself off the Astronomy Tower."

"Or, you know, we could just cuddle."

He seemed to perk up, and though his cheeks were still redder than her hair, he slowly climbed back beneath the covers and, after a little coaxing, slung an arm around her. For a while, even when his soft snores filled the room, she was sure she'd never be able to sleep.

Still thinking that, she drifted into dreamland in his arms.

 **.o0o.**

He was exhausted.

Since his first time in the field, Robards seemed to have tripled their regimen, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep up. Their weekly evenings at the Leaky Cauldron were already a thing of the past, simply because they were too tired come Friday to do much more than Floo home and go to bed.

It gave Ron a newfound respect for the Aurors who'd already completed their training, and furthermore, it leant him a sense of appreciation for Rhea Pierce.

Since beginning his training, Rhea had been irascible, inflexible, and a downright slave-driver, but it was only now that she was suspended did he realise how much she'd actually done for them. She'd never really held their hands, but there had been times when she'd let them off early, sometimes going so far as to give them a day off.

With Robards now in charge of Auror training till she was done with her disciplinary hearing . . . well, he'd never really been fond of them for being accepted into the programme without the appropriate NEWT results in the first place. Now that the power rested solely with him, it was evident that he was making it his goal in life to drive them off the force.

Padma and Terry, in true Ravenclaw fashion, were persevering through it all – their naturally intellectual personalities making the long hours of study easier for them than the others. Ron, for his part, had never missed Hermione more than when Robards had them studying new spell till the early hours of the morning.

There were days when Ron wanted nothing more than to make like Neville and throw in the towel, but the need to prove himself forced him to continue. He'd always been the sidekick, in a way, but now it was his time to prove that he was worth more than that.

Hermione wasn't around, and Harry just wasn't Harry anymore, and it was time for him to show himself that he could succeed on his own.

"If you're too tired, maybe we could take a rain check?"

Mentally, he slapped himself for drifting off during their meal. Ron had chosen the Leaky Cauldron solely because the hustle and bustle would keep the tiredness at bay and let him enjoy his date, but it was painfully obvious that not even Lavender could hold his attention when he hadn't slept more than five hours in the last two days.

"No, I'm OK," he said, stifling a yawn. "Training's just been really tough this past month."

"I know," Lavender replied, "Harry getting suspended is all over the papers. All that publicity can't be doing you all any favours."

"He's just lucky Kingsley intervened," said Ron, slightly irritated that Lavender instantly assumed that training had become tougher because of Harry. "Robards was all for showing him the door and slamming it in his face." He frowned as her eyes lit up, and raised an eyebrow. "No, Lav."

"What?" she asked, her voice a little too innocent for his liking.

"Stop being a Skeeter," he grumbled, "You can do a lot better than spinning gossipy stories about the facts your friends tell you."

"What's the point of having a boyfriend in law enforcement if I can't use him to get the scoop," she teased, extending her lower lip in a pout. He rolled his eyes and sipped at his drink, hoping that Hannah would bring their food over soon.

"Merlin boy, what are you doing here with this trollop?" screeched an all too familiar harpy, and he winced as he turned to find Great-Aunt Muriel hobbling towards his table.

"Did she just call me a–" began Lavender, looking incredulous, but he gently tapped her leg beneath the table and managed a discrete shake of his head. There really was no point in arguing with the old cow, and he just hoped she'd grow bored after a few seconds of pleasantries and leave.

"Isn't your hair getting rather long, Ronald?" she pestered, digging her walking cane into his side. "You're looking more and more like Ginevra with every passing day. Now hurry up and move in, these old legs can't hold me up forever."

"Aunt Muriel," he said, biting his tongue to keep from cussing, "This is my girlfriend, Lavender."

"I see," replied Muriel, squinting across the table. "Good for you, Ronald. I was beginning to have my doubts, but bringing home a trollop like this one is better than being a pillow-biter, I'll give you that."

"Excuse me?" asked Lavender, looking ready to reach across the table and give Muriel a few werewolf scars of her own. Hastily, Ron shook his head, pleading for her not to do anything.

He didn't want to be written out of the will, after all, and the old bat was going to kick the bucket sooner rather than later anyway.

Still, what did she mean by pillow-biter, exactly?

"Lavender is a very nice girl, Aunt Muriel," he said, plastering a fake smile across his face, flinching as he felt his eye begin to twitch.

"Of course you think she's nice, she's giving the milk away for free, isn't she?" snapped Muriel, flashing her yellowed teeth. "At least you're doing better than poor George. I just stopped by the shop to see how he's getting on, and it turns out he has one of those brown girls gallivanting about like they own the place."

"Miss Muriel," said Lavender, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "As much as I'd love to stay here and listen to your wise words, I have things to do. Ron, owl me once the Healers come collect their missing cadaver." She leaned across the table to kiss him on the cheek, and as she drew herself to her full height, she flipped her air. "And honey," she added, looking squarely at Aunt Muriel, "Your ass may be decomposing, but I invite you to jealously stare at mine as I walk away."

"Sorry," Ron mouthed, thankful that Lavender didn't appear to be holding it against him as she left, and she nodded. Then she was gone, and Muriel was poking at him with her walking stick.

"How is that a nice girl?" snorted Muriel. "Harrumph, you're almost as bad as William and that French piece he got himself mixed up with. What was she wearing anyway? Well, it could be worse. After all the boasting about Harry Potter being your little friend, I was sure you were his pillow-biter."

"Come again?" Ron asked, eyes popping from his skull, his Firewhisky catching in his throat. He choked, thumping his chest in an attempt to calm himself as Muriel stared in obvious distaste.

"Maybe if you cut your hair, you wouldn't have so much trouble with your hearing. Oh Merlin, why can't you all have been more like Fabian and Gi–"

Ron let her drone on, leaning his head into his hand and frowning at his botched date. He'd actually been hoping to have finally taken things a step further with Lavender tonight, and now it seemed as though they'd taken three steps back.

His attention was drawn to a young woman entering the pub, or more specifically, to her bubblegum pink hair. She was ruddy gorgeous, and his first thought was that she must be a Metamorphmagus, for no woman could truly be so naturally good looking.

His second thought was that if Tonks could have made herself look like that at will, then Remus must have certainly died a happy man. A mere second after the unorthodox thought had bubbled into his head, he slapped himself for being so insensitive to their memories – true, he hadn't really known Tonks, but Remus had been a close friend as well as a mentor.

"How?" gasped Muriel, extending a trembling finger at the woman, her eyes as wide as saucers. "She hasn't aged a day."

The pink haired girl froze, and Ron started. The bar was crowded, and they were sitting as far away from each other as possible, so how could she hear Muriel's voice? As if realising he was thinking of her, she turned, and for a mere second, Ron could have sworn that her eyes were those of a reptile.

They were almost . . . serpentine.

Then she blinked, and when she opened her eyes they were a normal blue. Frowning, she gritted her teeth at the sight of Muriel before pulling up her hood and making for the door.

Only then, did Ron become aware that Muriel was still speaking, but by the time he'd turned his attention back to her, all he heard was:

"Seventy years, and she looks as though not a single day has passed."

 **.o0o.**

He sighed, leaning against the counter. The store was set to open in little over two weeks, and he'd already gone through the motions of stocking shelves and hiring staff. There really wasn't much left to do, but he was determined to host the opening during the first weekend of the Easter holidays.

It was just good business sense, considering that most of his clientele were students of Hogwarts age. He just hoped that Professor McGonagall had lightened up a little and that half his wares were not still banned at Hogwarts.

It would be hard work running the shop by himself – he remembered full well how gruelling it had been both making and selling their products when Fred had been alive. They'd been up all night preparing their own patented goods, and up all day selling them.

He wondered if he'd be able to entice Lee away from his job at Wizarding Wireless, since he was the only one with intimate knowledge of their products. It would make it easier if he had Lee to do the manufacturing whilst he did the sales, but he couldn't bring himself to pull his friend away from achieving his goals.

George was about to close the store for the night, having finally finished moving the last of his products from the Burrow, when the doorbell tinkled. Turning, his eyes grew wide at the sight of the imposing woman making her way into his shop.

"Lady Malfoy," he said by way of greeting, letting his fingers close around his wand beneath the counter. It was foolish to think that she would attack him in broad daylight, and without any possible motive, but the war had made him wary.

He may not have wanted to admit it, but Narcissa Malfoy could easily best him in a duel. Despite the silent nobility with which she held herself, there truly was no forgetting that this woman was a sister of Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the darkest and most powerful witches to have every lived.

Unlike her elder sister, whom he'd had the displeasure of meeting – albeit in passing – whose very aura had stank of chaos, there was a quiet sense of strength about Narcissa. It was both welcoming and intimidating, but he nevertheless drew himself to his full height and met her gaze.

George refused to be the first to back down.

"Mister Weasley," she replied, her expression a solemn mask of civility. She extended her hand, not hesitating in the slightest as her kind were often known to do when exchanging forced pleasantries with Blood-Traitors like himself.

"What brings you to my store, Lady Malfoy?" he asked, "If you're looking to buy, we're not yet opened for business."

"I fear that at my age, the novelty of fake wands and illness-inducing sweets have worn off," she said. "If you don't mind me getting right to the point, I've stopped by to talk business."

"I've already said I'm not selling, and you've stated you have no interest in buying, so what business could you possibly have with me?" George surveyed her, trying his hardest to figure out her endgame, but her poker face was excellent. With a pang, he realised that Fred, ever the more cunning of the two, could have probably read her tells, but he was out of his depth here.

It was his brother who'd handled their finances and business dealings in the past, whilst he'd specialised in the creation of new products. Still, years of evading Minerva McGonagall's hawkish gaze had not been in vain, and he was confident that he'd be able to, at the very least, hold his own against Narcissa.

Then again, the Malfoys had not amassed the largest fortune in Wizarding Europe by sitting around. Their business acumen was as sharp as they came, and he was well aware of Narcissa Malfoy's reputation in the commercial world.

"Let us not engage in a battle of wit, Mister Weasley. I assure you that you will lose." For a brief moment, he thought that her face showed the barest traces of amusement, and then it was gone. "This is your only premises, and as far as I can tell by your patents, you manufacture your entire inventory by yourself." She gestured at a stack of Skiving Snackboxes, wrinkling her nose as though disgusted by the concept of such a product, before continuing. "How long does it take you to make one of those?"

"About four hours for a hundred," he admitted. An inkling of what she was getting at began to form in his mind, and for some reason he found that he was not wholly opposed to the idea. Determined not to get ahead of himself, he focused his full attention onto Narcissa.

"Impressive," she said, her tone implying that she thought the exact opposite. "And your average rate of turnover?"

She had him. When Fred had been alive, it had been somewhat easier to manage making their products on their own, but without him it would be impossible. His brother and he had always entertained the notion of one day owning their own facility from which to mass-produce their products, but they'd never really had the Galleons to go about it.

They'd been saving for it, but then the war had come and torn everything to the ground.

"What are you getting at, Lady Malfoy?"

"As you may know, Malfoy Holdings is the largest privately owned commercial entity in Wizarding Britain. Our main assets are our potion facilities, meaning that most of our premises are already equipped for production of your specific line."

"And you just happen to have one of these buildings empty and waiting, do you?" he asked, incredulous.

"As with all trees that grow too large, several branches begin to decay. My son and I have no intention of keeping the decayed branches, and we are rather eager to distance ourselves from some of my husband's more _controversial_ business decisions."

George couldn't help but smirk, because she'd just shown her hand, and his still remained concealed. It was obvious to him that this was more than just an opportunity for her fortunes – it was a lifeline. It was something that he'd be able to use to his advantage when it was time to hammer out their deal.

Weasley Wizard Wheezes needed a manufacturing facility just as much as Malfoy Holdings needed the goodwill of being associated with him, a war hero.

"It isn't polite to sugar-coat your words when discussing things with potential business partners, Lady Malfoy," he said, his smirk only growing as a sliver of unease wormed its way into her immaculately indifferent visage. "You're running scared, and shutting down every bit of illegal activity you've been involved in."

"Perhaps, but you won't cover your overheads without accepting my assistance." Narcissa pursed her lips, and for a long moment, they were both content to contemplate the other.

"And what do you want from me in return?" George finally asked.

"Five hundred Galleons a month, that's the rental for the facility, but I'd also like you to endorse this partnership at your opening party."

He frowned. Was he really ready to take such a drastic step for the success of his business?

"Do we have a deal?"

Feeling as though he was selling his soul to the devil, he said, "Yeah, I guess we do."

 **.o0o.**

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars**

"You're right, Harry. I do feel really emotional about you being with someone else," said Ginny. "Only that emotion is called happiness, because I'm glad I have more self-respect than that slag you're hooking up with."

"You know what, Ginny," he snapped, "I feel alive when I'm with her, and I never felt that way with you. With you, it was pressure to settle down and have kids with a white picket fence, and I'm eighteen! I don't want any of that."

"I never asked you for that! Dammit, Harry! All I wanted was one year to finish my education, and then see if my feelings for you were real. Who the hell said anything about getting married and settling down? Stop trying to put this all on me, Harry, because everything that went wrong between us? That's all because you were too selfish to wait."

 _Or was it just me putting pressure on myself, because you're the only girl I saw a future with?_

* * *

 **A/N: Hello readers. As you can tell, Ginny's taken over Hermione's POV slot. We'll be hearing from her again in a few chapters, but I'm really excited to tackle Ginny's arc, and I do hope you're all enjoying the read so far.**

 **A big thank you to all my readers and reviewers so far. You guys are great**

 **Also, I'd like to just offer you all a big apology for being late on this update. I've been really unwell this past week, and I just didn't want to put up a substandard chapter because I was too ill to properly write it.**

 **Till next time**

 **-Shane**


	11. Lines in the Sand: Part One

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Lines in the Sand**

 **Part One**

It was a pleasant morning.

Warm, yet not hot, with a light breeze that teased its way in through the open windows, Ron decided that he couldn't have wished for a more peaceful day off. Since the debacle which had led to the suspension of Harry and Rhea, Robards had intensified their training tenfold, and it was becoming harder and harder to keep up with the courses.

Then again, it was probably better for Harry that he wasn't around. The last Ron had seen his mate; he'd looked worse than ever, sallow, with bloodshot eyes and hair that looked as if it hadn't been combed in years. True, Harry's hair was usually kept in various states of dishevelment, but there was a distinct difference between having naturally untidy hair and looking like a member of the Hobgoblins right before one of their stints in St. Mungo's rehabilitation ward.

He froze, his cup almost slipping from his grasp as the realization slammed into him with all the subtlety of a hippogriff kicking his face in.

The red-eyes, the constant fatigue, the weight loss, the girlfriend who'd made a small fortune by stripping down naked and posing for photo shoots with Playwitch, hell, even the personality change screamed to the world that they were the signs of an addiction.

 _Harry, you bloody moron._

The signs had been right in front of him from the start, but he'd never so much as let the thought cross his mind. He could kick himself for not seeing it, he really could, but to be honest it wasn't his fault. Who the bleeding hell would have thought that Harry Potter, the bloke who'd saved the Wizarding World, would have gotten himself hooked onto drugs?

His first thought was to Apparate to Kensington so that he could smack some sense into him. The second thought, however, stopped him in his tracks. He needed help, and unfortunately, the one person he'd have gone to without hesitation had literally fallen of the grid.

Merlin, but he'd never needed Hermione more than right now, because he knew, deep down, that both he and Harry had relied on her more than they'd dare let on. She'd been the one who'd always cleaned up the messes that the two of them had made, and right now, Harry was in one of the biggest messes of his life.

Thinking fast, he made the only logical thought he could. He couldn't go to his brothers, not with something so delicate, and most certainly not now that the grand reopening of Weasley Wizard Wheezes was tomorrow night. He didn't dare go to his parents, they had enough on their plates without having this added to it, and the thought of going to get help from Ginny was laughable.

Sighing, he remembered that this had been a perfectly pleasant morning, but of course, Harry Potter had a way of turning the most ethereal of paradises into battlefields. It probably was something to do with the noseless freak who'd been trying to kill him for all those years, but Ron was pretty sure that this latest antic was utterly and completely Harry's fault.

Voldemort had the perfect alibi, for once. He was dead.

Getting to his feet, he downed his tea in one before setting the cup down on the coffee table. Mum would probably be irritated by him not taking it to the kitchen, but he figured he'd better prioritize. Letting the suffocating blackness of Apparition envelop him, he held his breath to stave off the nausea that would no doubt come after.

Landing in a corridor, he frowned at the pale blue door in front of him. Was he really prepared to go through with this? Could he really trust her to help him without turning Harry over to Robards?

Swallowing, he went with his gut instinct, and knocked thrice upon the door. An unnatural silence filled the hallway as the seconds ticked by like hours, and he gnawed at his lip, stray thoughts rippling through his mind.

The door swung open, and he felt his stomach clench as she raised a quizzical eyebrow, frowning at him as she towelled her hair. Having fully expected her to have been clad in full battle regalia, he found himself gawking. It was strange, but the thought that she functioned like the rest of them was unfathomable to him, especially considering her irascible and inflexible nature at work.

Also, he was pretty sure that she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her T-shirt.

"Weasley?" exclaimed Rhea Pierce, obviously surprised, as she swung open the door.

"Do you have a minute?" he stammered, pointedly looking over her shoulder to avoid any unwanted nip-slips. Not that he was against receiving an eyeful, mind you, for Rhea was quite an attractive woman, even though she was a full decade older than him.

Still, it would make for an uncomfortable work environment, and that was the last thing he needed at present.

"I suppose." She shrugged, stepping aside. Stifling his nerves, he entered her flat, taking in the sparse furnishings and neutral colour scheme. Black, silver, and cream seemed to be the most prevalent of colours, interspersed here and there with bits of red.

It made him wonder how much of a social life she had outside of meeting with the other Aurors at the office.

Pushing all thoughts of Rhea's living room from his mind when she cleared her throat, he swallowed the knot that had been forming in his throat, and plucked up every last morsel of his Gryffindor courage.

"It's about Harry," he said, "I didn't really know who else I could go to."

"And you came to me?" Rhea sounded incredulous. "I'm your superior, Weasley, in a profession that requires us to _uphold_ the law. Even suspended, I can have Potter struck out of the training programme in seconds if you're here to tell me what I think you are."

"I'd like to think I know you, Auror Pierce," he replied, deciding for the path of honesty. Flattering and begging would obviously get him nowhere, and he figured that the truth was all that he could hedge his bets upon. "And I know you don't mind breaking the rules, so long as they aren't _your_ rules."

"These aren't just rules, Ronald," she said, her voice significantly lower than it had been before. "Potter's using, and if we're caught covering it up, then it's both our asses slung over Robards' shoulder."

"How did you know?" It was all that he could think to ask. He hadn't expected her to have truly known what it was that he suspected was going on – all he had thought was that she'd have been the best person to help him discover the truth.

Then, had it been confirmed that Harry was indeed using, he'd be able to think up a plan with the sole intention of helping his mate kick his addiction. He hadn't expected his assumptions to have been confirmed so quickly though, and he was glad that he was seated, because it was fairly evident to him that he'd have otherwise keeled over in shock by now.

"I was suspicious," said Rhea, running a hand through her hair. "I did some tests on his blood, and for Merlin's sake, don't give me that look. The Muggle syringe in the back is one of the first tricks I taught you all for gathering intelligence."

"So you knew, and you have evidence. Why didn't you turn him in to Robards? It would get you out of suspension faster than anything else in the world."

"I'm not going to throw someone under the bus for my own personal gain. Potter's in pain, and he's just turning all that torment inwards to self-destruct rather than hurt anyone around him. It would be disgusting for me to just turn him in without trying to first help him."

A long silence hung in the air following Rhea's pronouncement, and Ron stared, seeing a whole new side in her that he had never before realised existed. It was a side that was compassionate, loyal, and something he wished that every Auror possessed.

It was a sense of camaraderie, a distinct show as to why she was indeed a true Auror, and why she was loved and respected with so much more sincerity than their boss, Gawain Robards.

" _Caeruleum Navitas_ ," she explained, breaking the silence and his musings. "Or _Blue Energy,_ as the street name goes. It's one of the most addictive potions in the world, and is therefore banned in most countries. However, professional athletes are fond of using it for the adrenaline inducing effects, in addition to the boundless energy it bestows upon the user – and it's almost impossible to monitor because whilst the effects last for hours, the potion is untraceable once it diffuses into the bloodstream."

Ron digested the information for a brief minute and then nodded.

"So how do we help him?"

. **o0o**.

It was with a looming sense of trepidation that he stepped into the already crowded store, and the knowledge that he was perhaps the most unwelcome person at the launch party weighed heavy on his mind.

Still, the invite had been sent to him quite a while before his falling out with the rest of the family, and he could only hope that it had not been cancelled. He wanted to be here to celebrate their success, and truth be told, they couldn't keep him away if they tried.

It was only through his benevolence and generosity that Weasley Wizard Wheezes even existed, and that was the fact of the matter. Even though he'd never formally put in a claim, he could well argue that he had been their first, and only, sponsor, and was as such entitled to a slice of the venture.

He wouldn't though – merely because he'd like to think he hadn't yet fallen that far.

His shoulder throbbed as he lifted a flute of champagne to his lips. It had been nearly a week since he'd inadvertently Splinched himself and had to have Kreacher reattach the limb, and magic did have its limits. His House Elf had been less than impressed with him in the days since, but as much as he appreciated and understood the concern, he didn't want any of it.

It had, at the very least, helped him in that he could no longer turn a blind eye towards his drinking. Though, truth be told, that resolution had been thrown out the window pretty soon once Amber had brought out a bottle of Blishen's finest.

"Is that Charise?" asked Amber, stifling a giggle. "Oh it is, I haven't seen her in ages. I'll see you in a bit, Harry." Kissing him on the cheek, she disappeared, and he couldn't help but feel oddly relieved to be free of her for a few minutes. Amber was fun and gorgeous, but there was no substance to her, but he just couldn't break up with her.

Whenever he'd try, she'd change the topic using her body, and Harry had quickly found that it was all but impossible to break up with her when she was doing such sinfully sweet things to him with her mouth.

He sipped at his drink, ignoring the empty pang of regret that filled him. He stood alone, as was the norm of late, and other than the eager stares of strangers, nobody truly paid him any mind. Percy had noticed him enter, he knew that for a fact, and yet the older man had not so much as blinked in recognition.

A low growl tore from his lips when he turned, his eyes falling on Ginny standing near the wall, one hand laid playfully upon Dennis' shoulder. He'd never seen her look so utterly and completely beautiful, and he'd known her for nearly eight years.

Unlike Amber, she did not need to flaunt her curves to make him, along with every other man who had eyes, desire her. Her lips, glossy red, were perhaps the only made up part about her, and somehow, each and every freckle just enhanced her appeal, right down to the tiny scar blemishing her brow above her right eye.

She'd betrayed him though, and abandoned him to find herself, whatever the hell that meant, right when he'd needed her the most. In a way, he had found their romance stifling, the emphasis upon settling down never far from every stolen kiss, and yet, it was a comfort that he'd now pay the world for.

A soft giggle escaped her lips as she leaned forward to peck Dennis on the lips, and he felt the beast within him stir. Setting aside his better judgement, and fighting against his growing headache, he approached the couple.

"Dennis, Ginny," he greeted with a perfunctory nod.

"Harry," the reply was strained, like a shard of glass about to shatter, and he forced himself to meet her eyes. There was a warning there, and he refused to heed it.

"I wonder," he snipped, perhaps more than a little spitefully, as he noted her fingers linking with Dennis'. "How late your boyfriend's parents have extended his curfew."

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Harry," she retorted, her lips pressed into a thin line as Dennis quivered at her side, obviously torn between indignation and the sickening hero worship he'd exhibited towards Harry since first meeting him.

"It's more contempt than jealousy, but you're free to interpret it in any way you want," he shot back. Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward as if to strike him, before pausing.

"Dennis, could you be a dear and get me a drink?"

"Anything in particular?"

"Something that will sting Potter's eyes when I throw it in his face."

Dennis nodded, a grin playing about his lips as he disappeared into the crowd, but before Harry could savour having Ginny on her own, she'd spoken.

"What's happened to you, Harry? I can't even recognise you anymore."

Her words were like a slap, and he cringed, his headache only strengthening. Thanking Merlin that he'd had a few drops of potion before showing up at the event, he strengthened his resolve and hissed, hoping to wound as he'd just been wounded.

"You left me." He shrugged. "So don't blame me for not being able to recognise what I've become without you."

"Listen to yourself," she snapped, "Blaming me for the parade of slags you've been shagging since the war, blaming me for your suspension, for everything that's wrong in your life. You made those decisions on your own, just like you could have chosen to wait for me like I asked you to."

"It's a little too late to want me back, isn't it, Ginny?"

"That's really what you're taking from what I just said?" she asked, incredulous. "I don't fucking want you back, or at least, I don't want the man that you've become."

"I can see the emotions written across your face, clear as day, Ginny," he retorted, "I saw you glaring at me when I walked in with Amber, and I saw how quickly you sent your little boy off to fetch you drinks when I showed up. If you're upset that I'm here with someone else, all you have to do is say so."

"You're right, Harry. I do feel really emotional about you being with someone else," said Ginny. "Only that emotion is called happiness, because I'm glad I have more self-respect than that slag you're hooking up with."

"You know what, Ginny?" he snapped, "I feel alive when I'm with her, and I never felt that way with you. With you, it was pressure to settle down and have kids with a white picket fence, and I'm eighteen! I don't want any of that."

"I never asked you for that! Dammit, Harry! All I wanted was one year to finish my education, and then see if my feelings for you were real. Who the hell said anything about getting married and settling down? Stop trying to put this all on me, Harry, because everything that went wrong between us? That's all because you were too selfish to wait."

 _Or was it just me putting pressure on myself, because you're the only girl I saw a future with?_

"Maybe you should have been thinking about what I needed, just a little, instead of just focusing on what you wanted," he whispered, realising how close they'd come together in their arguments. He could smell her perfume, his head inches from hers as he pulled away, turning from her.

It may be that he'd never truly be able to love Amber, but if this was what loving someone felt like, he hoped to never feel it again.

. **o0o**.

She watched him go, fighting the urge to scream the entire time.

How dare he accuse her of being the one to drive their love to ruin?

It was ridiculous, laughable even, that he would try to shift the entirety of the blame onto her. She, who had been faithful, who had fully intended to come back to him after she had completed her N. E. W. T. year.

It had been Harry who had driven her into Dennis' arms, and even if she had wilfully ignored the part of her that claimed she was being selfish by breaking up with Harry, it had been her choice. Just as it had been his choice to sleep with Rebekah Erilson and splash it across every tabloid in the Wizarding World.

She remembered the denial she had felt when first confronted with the picture of the two of them wrapped up in each other upon Harry's balcony, both looking far more risqué than they would have had they known a camera had been directed at them. Her heart had broken, and when she'd been spending her days crying in the common room rather than go to bed and dream, it had been Dennis who'd helped put her back together.

Ginny was happy, or at least she thought she was, so how dare Harry come into her life like this and make her question the good things she had. Her wounds, psychological scars that she had long since believed healed, felt raw and fresh following her argument with her ex.

Sighing to herself, she walked till she exited the building, letting the cool breeze of the night wash over her. It was comforting, and she found herself breathing deeply as her heels clicked across the cobblestoned street in search of a nearby bench.

Wishing she'd stopped to get her wrap from the coatroom, she shivered as she sat down, feeling the tears threaten to spill across the corners of her eyes. Blinking furiously, she found her attention shifting to the elegant red runes drawn across the street. Having not taken the subject at Hogwarts, she wasn't really aware of their meaning, and so simply assuming that they were but one of the defensive measures George had set in place to ensure the safety of his guests, she let herself simply take in the graceful beauty of the symbols.

"Aren't you cold?" a voice asked, and she looked up with a frown, ready to snap at whoever had dared come out to bother her when she so obviously wanted to be alone. Instead, she found a smile breaking out across her lips as she saw Dennis standing before the bench, holding out his jacket.

Gratefully, she let him slip it over her like a blanket, before she replied,

"I just needed some air."

"I can see why," he said, and she frowned at the almost pained note in his voice.

"He just has a way of infuriating me to the point where I want to rip his hair out by the roots," she explained. "I'm sorry I'm ruining your night, Dennis." She laughed, a hollow sound to her lips, and tried to link her fingers with his only for him to pull away.

His jacket was warm over her body, yet in that moment, she felt a chill run down her spine.

"I think that the night's about to get a lot worse," said Dennis. She tensed, looking away, because she knew, Merlin be damned, she knew where this conversation was going. "I've been accepted into a magical photography programme, and I wasn't going to accept, but after tonight, I think that I need to."

"Dennis," she all but whimpered, clasping her fingers around the armrest of the bench. Her nails dug into the weathered wood, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything more. It didn't seem to matter though, as he was still speaking.

"I'll not be returning to Hogwarts, Ginny," he said, gnawing at his lip. "I'll be leaving for France in two weeks, and I think, no, I know that we should break up."

The words were like ice, and she wondered how everything could be going wrong on a night that was supposed to have been magical. It was the launch party of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes, a night to celebrate her brother's triumphs, and it had all begun going downhill from the minute Harry Potter had shown his face.

Then there was Dennis – he seemed so much stronger than he had when they'd first begun dating. There was still an air of melancholy about him, but he'd healed, whilst she'd merely bandaged her still bleeding wounds and hoped for the best.

He was her support system, someone who helped her forget the pain of losing a brother, and he was choosing to leave her to follow his dreams instead of staying for her. She opened her mouth to reply, to try and reason with him to stay for her, and then it slammed into her like a rock to the temple.

Was this how Harry had felt when she'd broken up with him to return to Hogwarts and heal?

In that moment she realised that it would be hypocritical for her to cling to Dennis and keep him chained, for as lovely a person as he was, there truly was no point in fighting for a relationship in which he had already decided he didn't want. There was no more room for heartache within her, and so she refused to let any more of it consume her.

"What was it about tonight that made you decide you needed to leave?" she asked finally, swallowing and turning to face him with the mistiest of eyes.

"You've been so sweet and caring this past year, and you've been amazing, Ginny, but you haven't been you. Tonight, when you and Harry were sniping at each other . . . it was almost like the old you, the girl who existed before the war. You didn't second guess yourself, your fire and your passion was there – and it hasn't been there whilst you and I were together. I'll always care about you Ginny, but it's like I'm just a Band-Aid, whilst he's your elixir of life. "

He got to his feet, his words ringing in her ears, and Disapparated, leaving her behind with nought but a leather jacket that smelled of him, and more worries than she knew what to do with. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and it was such that she almost missed the hiss of a robe ghosting over the cobblestones.

She looked up, and opened her mouth to scream.

Then, there was a flash of light, and her world went dark.

 **.o0o.**

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _I did not come here for the sake of pleasantries, Draco," hissed Theo, his eyes darting this way and that. "I'm here because I feel I owe it to you to give you a head's up."_

" _What are you going on about?"_

" _Your mother pissed off the wrong people when she decided to distance herself from the criminal side of Malfoy Holdings."_

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hullo mates.**

 **So this week's update was a little late. *Hides from pitchforks and torches* Very sorry about that, but balancing university and work has been really, really hectic. That all aside, I should have Part 2 of this chapter up by Wednesday, Merlin and Morgana willing.**

 **For those of you who like seeing some aesthetics and photosets for Lovers and Liars, as well as my other fanfictions, you can find me on Tumblr. Username: Shane_Devante**

 **Hoping you all are well, and a huge thank you for all the reviews and favourites/follows so far. I love reading them, and it's awesome to hear what you guys all think.**

 **Till next time,**

 **-Shane**


	12. Lines in the Sand: Part Two

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Lines in the Sand**

 **Part Two**

. **o0o**.

There truly was no denying the strong emotions which welled within him as he made his way across the crowded room. The sensation was not one that was foreign to him. In fact, it was one that he was intimately familiar with.

The feeling was hate, and Merlin alone knew how much Draco undeniably and irrevocably hated being in the presence of so many Weasleys and their ilk, each and every one of them glaring at him with their judgemental eyes. Even with Luna's restraining hand laid upon his arm, he found it almost impossible not to toss his drink at the nearest Order member.

He knew that he was not a saint and that he'd spent almost his entire life playing the part of a sinner, but it was utterly revolting to him that the rest of the world felt they had the right to judge him because his sins were different from theirs'.

As much as he hated the scorn that was heaped upon his shoulders, he still kept his head high as he navigated the room in search of a vacant pair of chairs. He was a Malfoy . . . and he would not give away his pride and dignity that easily.

"You should smile more," said Luna, and if there was tension within her, she did not let it show.

"I find it difficult to smile at people who spend their days fantasising about my incarceration," he replied, "That Weasley over there in particular keeps looking at me as though he's just gotten done filling out the paperwork that would buy me a cell in Azkaban."

"Hiding your emotions makes you look strong and unaffected," she pointed out, tightening her hold on his arm. "But faking a smile and a laugh when people are trying to break you down makes the act look real."

He paused at her words, slowly turning so that he faced her, and a soft smile broke out across his face. Reaching out to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, he wondered what it was that he had done to deserve a girl as amazing as Luna Lovegood. She was, as he saw it, the pinnacle of perfection – and even though a part of him suspected that he still saw her in the rose-tinted spectacles that came with a newly minted romance – there was little doubt in his mind as to how amazing she was.

Powerful, intelligent, beautiful, these were just the first three words that came to his mind when he thought about her.

It struck him, just as he leaned in to press his lips to hers, that if what he felt for the world around him was hate, and that if what he felt for Luna was the exact opposite . . . then did that not mean he _loved_ her?

In tandem, their lips moved against each other, till she pulled away and shook her head. With a giggle, she said, "I said smile, Draco, not snog."

"Snogging you makes me smile," he replied, and he leaned in again, only to be interrupted by the clearing of a throat. He turned, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline as he took in the couple standing before him.

Tall and rather thin, Theodore Nott stood with an arm around the waist of an equally familiar woman, the calculating look upon his face a stark contrast to the cheery look on hers. Still, it was not the sight of his old friends that stunned him into such speechlessness, but rather, it was the swollen nature of her belly. Throughout Hogwarts, Daphne Greengrass had always gone to great lengths to maintain her figure . . . and yet her stomach now seemed intent on bursting through her dress.

Holy Merlin, she'd really let herself go.

"Why am I not surprised that peace has made a romantic out of you, Draco?" said Theo by way of greeting.

"Theo," he replied, quickly recovering himself. "It's been quite some time." Luna shifted at his side, her fingers twined with his, and he squeezed them reassuringly before adding, "This is my girlfriend, Luna Lovegood." As though daring them to argue with his pronouncement, he squared his shoulders and forced his features back to their impassive mask.

"It has," replied Theo, and Draco could have sworn there was a trace of nervousness in his voice as he spoke. "A pleasure to formally meet you, Miss Lovegood."

"Call me Luna." She smiled, before turning to Daphne with a knowing expression. "How far along are you?"

Draco started, freezing at his girlfriend's question. Was Luna really implying what he thought she was? A quick glance at Theo showed his friend to be as collected as ever, though he would have been a fool to miss the nervous glint both of their eyes.

It was then that the full realisation hit him that Daphne had not gotten fat – rather, she had gotten pregnant.

"Five months," answered Daphne, resting the palm of her hand upon her stomach. She chuckled, seeming to have finally seen his stunned expression, and rolled her eyes. "Yes, Draco, I'm pregnant."

"Er, congratulations?" he said, his voice faint as he gave her an awkward hug. Turning to clap Theo on the back, his friend merely shook his head and, in a cool voice, said,

"I'd like to speak to you alone, Draco."

"Impeccable timing, Theo," grumbled Daphne, "I have to go to the ladies room anyway – this spawn of yours is tap-dancing on my bladder. Luna, would you accompany me?"

He was about to interject when Luna pressed her lips to his cheek and murmured that she would meet him soon, and making a brave stab at conversation with Daphne, the two girls disappeared into the milling throng. Watching them go, he could not help but feel a burgeoning sense of hope – seeing the pair chatting away in such an amicable manner emboldened him to the fact that Luna may be able to fit into his world much easier than he'd initially thought. Obviously, he'd expected resistance from the other Pureblood families when he first began to integrate her into their social circles as his consort, but it was fast becoming apparent that she was more than capable of holding her own.

Turning back to face Theo, his friend subtly gestured for him to follow, and deftly headed into an empty aisle. Frowning, he followed, glancing around the room to make sure that there were no eyes on them. His time as a Death Eater had sharpened his senses, and he could already tell that something suspicious was afoot.

One look at the urgent glare Theo sported was enough to confirm his thoughts, and he instinctively flicked his wand to silence the entire aisle so as to ensure that their voices did not travel.

"I did not come here for the sake of pleasantries, Draco," hissed Theo, his eyes darting this way and that. "I'm here because I feel I owe it to you to give you a head's up."

"What are you going on about?"

"Your mother pissed off the wrong people when she decided to distance herself from the criminal side of Malfoy Holdings. Your father owned most of Malfoy Holdings' equity, and I'm not sure if you know this, but the Ministry seized all of it upon his arrest."

"Mother and I hold the majority," retorted Draco, not understanding what his friend was trying to get at.

"I beg to differ. The two of you just hold more sway than the other shareholders, and as one of those shareholders, I'm going to come right out and say that Lucius' shares just hit the market."

His blood ran cold, sweat breaking across his brow as he contemplated the full meaning of what his friend had just said. Heart thrumming in his chest, he sagged against a nearby shelf, because unlike most of the other Pureblood families that had prepared for such an eventuality, the House of Malfoy had never expected Voldemort to fail.

Whilst Theodore Nott Senior, amongst many other Pureblood nobles, had deigned to transfer most of their assets to their children or spouses for safekeeping, Lucius had not deemed such action suitable.

"The Ministry?" He gaped, feeling weak in the knees. Finally, he understood why his mother would grow so deathly silent whenever the topic of his father and the Ministry came up – she had known, how could she not, how precarious their position was.

"My sources in the Ministry tell me that your mother is doing all she can to buy back all that was confiscated from Lucius, but there are other bidders. Draco, you need to watch your back."

"Mother's kept me in the dark," he muttered. "How the hell do you know so much?"

"Spare me the indignation," snapped Theo, "I love my mother, I do, but unlike yours, mine is only fit for planning parties and gossiping with the other woman. I've had to work my arse off to keep the Nott fortune secure, and you have no idea how much I'm risking by helping you."

"You're speaking as if the Ministry isn't the only people standing against us."

"The Ministry?" A dry, sarcastic laugh burst out of Theo's mouth. "Draco, when your mother shut down all of the, shall we say, more questionable aspects of Malfoy Holdings, she pissed of the Gemini Sisters."

A chill ran down his spine, the hair on his neck standing on edge as the words crashed into him like shards of glass. His eyes widened, and he swallowed – he didn't know much about the infamous Gemini Sisters, but he knew enough to know that they were not to be taken lightly. The twin sisters of the Grey Family were known for their ruthlessness, and they hadn't carved out such a vast criminal empire throughout Britain by playing nice.

Merlin have mercy, but if what his father had said was true, even the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had thread lightly when dealing with the Greys.

"Daphne is pregnant with my child, Draco," Theo muttered in a hushed voice. "You have my support as you always have, my friend, but when the cards have been laid out, remember that I will protect my own above all else."

. **o0o**.

The night was going well, he thought, or as well as it could possibly go considering that the guest list comprised people from both sides of the war. Despite the bitter taste it left on his tongue, he knew that this was the price of being a successful businessman, and that this would not be the last time he'd make a deal with people he didn't like.

He supposed he should count himself lucky that he was working with Narcissa Malfoy rather than some of the more unsavoury Pureblood business tycoons. Whilst she was, without a doubt, an incredibly formidable woman possessed of a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, she was also a mother – and George sometimes liked to think he saw a softer, more matronly side to her during their business meetings.

Tensions had flared briefly when he'd first announced his collaboration with Malfoy Holdings, but it hadn't taken him long to sooth the nerves of his guests. Despite his mother still fixing him with disapproving looks, most of the family seemed to have taken it all in stride, and George was finally feeling confident that he'd be able to keep Weasley Wizard Wheezes running without Fred at his side.

Thoughts of his brother no longer crippled him, and to be honest, he wasn't sure how he felt about this. On one hand, he was grateful that the mere mention of Fred no longer rendered him a sobbing, Firewhisky-drenched heap upon the ground, yet on the other, he couldn't help but feel guilty for no longer grieving so intensely.

Shoving such thoughts aside, he spotted a familiar dark-skinned beauty standing beside the counter and made his way towards her with a smile on his face. Angelina had been a rock the past few months, almost as much as Percy had been, and he found that the lingering traces of depression seemed to flit away whenever she drew near.

No, he corrected himself; it was not that she made the pain go away. It was that she made it more manageable.

He was halfway across the room when he felt it creep over him, a sickly cold that clung to his body like a second skin, and before he could make a single sound, something hit him in the back . . . hard and jagged.

He let out a low yelp of pain before crumpling, his knees slamming against the ground and sending jolts of pain up his entire frame. His hands flew to his temples, clapping against them as the pain intensified, and he wouldn't be lying if he said that the Cruciatus had been less painful.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw that all around him, people were falling to the ground over clutching their heads. The air filled with shrieks, and George feebly tried to claw his way back to his feet only to feel the pain grow ever more furious, spreading from his head to the very tips of his toes.

The crippling cold bathed the room as the door swung open and a woman walked in, pale as moonlight and dressed in silks the colour of the night sky. The first thought that went through his mind upon seeing her was that this was not a woman to be crossed, that she was as dangerous as she was beautiful.

"My, my, my," she simpered, trailing her nails down her cheek as she surveys the room. "How the mighty have fallen."

"Juliet Grey," gasped Narcissa Malfoy, clawing her way to her feet. George had to admire the woman's strength of will, for he could not so much as think straight whilst under the effects of the Blood Rune.

Narcissa stood, trembling, supporting herself by holding onto a shelf with one hand, and grasping her wand with the other. The other woman, Juliet, laughed, her voice heavy with derision, and then, in a cold, clear voice, she spoke,

"It is never wise to break a deal with a Grey, Lady Malfoy. We pay our debts with interest."

"Do not presume to speak to me in such a manner, you wretch," retorted Narcissa, "Or I will give this room a reminder that Bellatrix was but one third of the Sisters, Black."

"On any other day of the week you would be correct." Juliet smirked, and George felt a chill run down his spine. There was darkness within Juliet Grey, stronger that he had never felt before, not even during his brief encounter with Bellatrix. Unlike Voldemort's greatest lieutenant, there was no sadism or insane drive to cause pain within Juliet.

She simply seemed the type to kill you because she could.

"But today," continued Juliet, "My sister drew this rune herself, with a drop of her blood to give us immunity. You're powerless here, and I am not."

"I am never powerless," snarled Narcissa, flicking her wand. Even as the jet of blue light flashed from her wand, she screamed, digging her nails into her temple as though to claw out the pain. Juliet easily deflected the curse, before replying with one of her own.

The force of Narcissa's shield charm, punctuated with a second scream from her, forced the hairs along George's entire body to stand on edge. Body quaking upon the floor, he groped about for his wand, determined to assist his business partner, and let out a yelp as the brief movement sent a dagger of ice through his brain.

He roared with agony, rolling over and clamping his eyes shut to try and stop the world from spinning. When he was finally able to reopen them, the first thing he saw was that Narcissa had fallen, and that Juliet's boot was pressed into her throat.

"You were a fool to try and face me under the influence of a Blood Rune," said Juliet, "Just as you were a fool to break a deal with us and give our facility to this Blood-Traitor scum."

George stared, realizing that Juliet was gesturing at him, and it took all of his self-control to not spit at her shoes for the insult. He had to remember that they were at her mercy, and that judging by her cocky demeanour, she probably had underlings waiting out in the street.

"George Weasley," she called, looking right at him with a sadistic glint in her eye. "My sister, Josephine, has already paid our debt to you for your part in this – I recommend you get your sister medical help soon, considering she's bleeding out on the bench outside your shop."

He was scarcely able to comprehend what had been said, let alone react, when Juliet grabbed Narcissa by the shoulder and added,

"Our debt to you, Lady Malfoy, comes with interest."

With a thunderous crack the pair Disapparated. The pain faded, slowly, but within a few minutes he was on his feet and shoving his way to the front door of the shop, his eyes almost immediately drawn to the shock of red hair strewn against the cobblestones not a few feet from the door.

"Ginny," he yelled, rushing towards her, and his voice was merged with another, much more hysterical voice coming from within the store, one that screamed a single word,

"Mother!"

* * *

 **In the Next Chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

 _Ginny smirked, a cold and cruel expression forming across her lips, and Harry found himself frowning as she walked across the room, her gaze never wavering in its intensity._

" _The mighty Harry Potter," she continued, "The saviour of Wizarding Britain, the Chosen One, The-Boy-Who-Lived . . . addicted to drugs and sticking his cock in every slag that bats her eyes at him. It's priceless, isn't it?"_

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **I want to just take a moment to thank all my reviewers, followers, and favourites. You guys are amazing, and I love**_ _ **you all. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.**_

 _ **Till next time**_

 _ **-Shane**_


	13. Dragons in the Moonlight

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Dragons in the Moonlight**

It amazed him . . .

The state of the Auror Department that morning was nothing short of chaotic. Memorandums – in the form of paper planes – whizzed through the air, some darting from office to office whilst others flew past him to enter the already crowded elevator. Voices were raised, senior field agents barking orders at their subordinates, every sound punctuated with the cracks of Apparition.

An Unspeakable shoved past him and he frowned, curiously studying the figure and wondering what he was doing here, when his attention was drawn several individuals who were definitely not Aurors. He had seen a few of them around the Ministry before – and suddenly it all became clear to him.

This was about the incident from last night.

It was quite shocking to be honest.

He had assumed that they couldn't very well do nothing and not come under scrutiny from several other branches of the Ministry, the Pureblood community, and the International Auror Board, but he sure as hell hadn't expected them to be taking this kidnapping seriously. It had been obvious to him – that is, before he'd actually come in to work, that they'd be going about the formalities and doing the barest minimum to ensure they had sufficient evidence of having carried out an investigation into her kidnapping.

For the love of Merlin, this was Narcissa _Malfoy_ , they were talking about.

As far as he was concerned, this was the perfect comeuppance for her and her family after what they'd done in the war. Sure, he did feel somewhat bad for the Ferret – he wasn't completely heartless, after all – but the fact remained that the Malfoys had hurt a lot of people during the war.

It did seem almost . . . fitting, that they now be hurt in turn.

It was an almost double-edged blade for him. On one hand, he didn't think that they should be expending their energy to seek out a person who had asked for what they were now receiving, but on the other hand, he did want to avenge his sister. Ginny was still unconscious at St. Mungo's, and though her injuries had been minor, Healers were at a loss as to why she had not yet woken.

Given that Juliet Grey had indicated that this entire debacle was the result of the Malfoys trying to break a deal with the Greys, he'd expect the world to forgive him for simply laying the blame for what had befallen his sister upon the Ferret's family.

Pushing thoughts of his sister from his mind, he took a deep breath and began making his way towards the trainees' shared office. Either Terry or Padma would probably be able to fill him in on what he had missed so far. Though the trainee's wing had been originally designed to house close to twenty Aurors at a time, the numbers had steadily declined up till the point where the six of them were the only ones in residence. Since it seemed unnecessary for them to use the entire wing for such a small number, especially now that Neville had dropped out of the training programme to pursue a mysterious new job, Morrison having completed his training – since he had begun two years before the rest of them – and Harry had been suspended, the trio had decided to simply use the largest office.

Thinking about their former teammates only served to further sour his mood. Ideally, he'd wanted to pop around to Harry's place in Kensington and find out how far his best friend had actually slipped. Considering the current state of affairs though, he'd no doubt have to leave Harry's addiction in Rhea's hands, and hope that she'd be enough to snap him out of whatever it was exactly he had gotten himself into.

Not that he doubted Rhea Pierce, mind you. The woman, he was sure, was perfectly capable of moving mountains if she were so inclined, and he had developed quite a deep strain of respect for her since first starting at the Auror Office.

He'd seen her slice a suspect's arm off with dark magic, after all.

"Morning, Terry, Padma," he began as he walked into the office, not bothering to look at her desk. "Fill me in on why everyone in the Department is running around like chickens with their heads chopped off?" No sooner had the words left his lips did he shake his head. He really needed to find his own place now that his mother was doing a little better, because, unfortunately, he was beginning to sound like her.

"Because I told them too," said a cool, clear voice, and Ron froze. Dropping his bag onto his desk, he turned, kicking himself for not bothering to check whether or not anyone was in the office with them. Terry had the grace to look sheepish, running a hand through his hair, but Padma simply rolled her eyes.

"Rhea," Ron stammered, "I thought you were still –"

"So did I, until this morning at any rate," she replied with a shrug. "Now, as I was just informing Patil and Boot, I need you trainees going over everything we have on the Gemini Sisters." Without another word, she turned on her heel and started to walk from the room.

Shaking himself, Ron hurried forward, ignoring Padma's piercing glare, and grabbed Rhea by the sleeve just as she exited the room. In a hushed voice, he asked, "Harry?"

"Look, Weasley," she whispered, "Potter's going to have to keep his head above water for a little longer unless you go and recruit someone else into helping us. The Gemini Sisters are my priority right now, and so is finding Narcissa Malfoy."

"Rhea."

"It's Auror Pierce when we're at work, Weasley. Just get back to work."

Recognising her dismissal, he let go off her sleeve and was about to turn back to his teammates when he heard the first roar of outrage. Wincing, his eyes widened at the sight of Gawain Robards storming out of the elevators with a pair of tattered memorandums clenched in his fists.

"What is the meaning of this?" barked Robards, puffing out his chest and squaring his shoulders. "You are on suspension, Pierce! On whose authority are you giving orders to _my_ subordinates?"

Ron tensed, unsure as to how to proceed. On one hand, Robards was his boss and in order to complete the task Rhea had assigned him, he'd had to set Robards' daily busywork aside. On the other, he felt a much stronger sense of loyalty towards Auror Pierce than he did the Head Auror.

Perhaps, he reasoned, this was because whilst Robards demanded respect from the other Aurors whilst Rhea Pierce had earned their respect.

Cool and composed as ever, Rhea inclined her head towards their superior and Ron watched as a subtle smirk curled across her features. Taking the time to trace her wand across the memorandum held in front of her to imprint it with her magical signature, she only then focused her full attention on Robards.

"In light of recent events and considering the fact that I've been spearheading the Gemini investigation since the beginning, my suspension has been revoked," she replied, her impassive tone a stark contrast to the vehemence exhibited by Robards.

"On whose orders?" snapped the Head Auror.

"That would be mine, Gawain," said a deep, familiar voice and Ron found himself grinning at the look of irritation on Robards face – and more to the point, the brief glint of victory in Rhea's eyes – as Kingsley Shacklebolt strode in. "Rhea," he added, "What do we have so far?"

At her pointed look, Ron nodded and said, "I'm on it, Auror Pierce."

 **.o0o.**

"For the last time, you daft, half-deaf moron, I have never seen that woman in my life," he snapped, slamming his fists onto the table and glaring at the gormless looking blob of a man sitting across from him.

Honestly, whoever had said that Aurors needed to stay in shape had obviously never met this insipid barrel of lard.

"You seem upset, Mister Malfoy," said the Auror. "Why is that?"

"I'm not sure." He shrugged, rolling his eyes and schooling his face into an expression of utter nonchalance. "Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that my mother was kidnapped last night."

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated, Mister Malfoy."

"Neither is your ineptitude," he retorted. "I have been sitting here, for the past twelve hours, mind you, telling you that I have never met this Juliet Grey in my life. What have you been doing? You've been snacking!"

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he rose to his feet. "If this is all the help I'm likely to get from the Ministry, I do think that I'll be returning home." Smoothing out his shirt as best he could, he ignored the spluttered protests of the man and left the interrogation room that had been appropriated for his interview.

Obviously, Head Auror Robards had done no more than send an inept, moronic Auror – though in all honesty, Draco wouldn't be surprised if the man actually turned out to be one of the employees of the Magical Maintenance Department – to placate him. He shouldn't have expected anything more from them, to be honest.

After all, he had a Dark Mark on his wrist, and the world was full of people who were content to see things in black and white. He was rather tired of trying to help people see when they'd rather remain blind.

"Wait just a moment, Mister Malfoy!" He heard a voice bellow, but his patience had already reached an end. Closing his eyes, he let the suffocating blackness envelop him as, with an almost inaudible crack, he Disapparated.

He stumbled upon reaching his living room, a wave of exhaustion slamming into his body. He tottered, nearly falling to the ground, when two pairs of hands steadied him and guided him to a nearby loveseat.

Sinking into the soft leather, he blinked to clear his vision. The first two people he noticed were the people who'd kept him from falling, Blaise and Theo, both wearing equally grim expressions. A second later, his eyes fell on Pansy, her hair in disarray, the cigarette trembling between her fingers as she watched him.

"Any longer and the boys were going to march into the Ministry searching for you," said Pansy from her seat across the room, her voice clipped. "Has there been any word of your mother?"

"None," he scoffed, "They don't seem all that fussed about her to be honest."

"We expected as much," said Theo. "The Ministry hasn't exactly been fond of us Purebloods as of late."

"Not that it matters," interjected Blaise. "I've spoken to Mother. If the Greys take Narcissa to mainland Europe, we'll know about it."

"I have my people searching as well," added Theo.

He nodded in response, not trusting himself to speak, when he felt a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Not needing to turn around to know who it was, he closed his eyes, feeling a knot of tension dissolve as she sat down at his side.

"He's exhausted," scolded Luna, and it was all he could do not to chuckle at the warning in her voice as she spoke. "I know you're trying to help, but he needs to sleep."

"What do y–"

"She's right, Theo," said Pansy, and Draco found himself staring at her. Never before had he heard such a degree of warmth in her voice. Gratefully, he nodded and without letting either of his friends protest, she got to her feet and grabbed their wrists. A second later they were gone, swallowed by the cracks of Apparition, and he breathed a sigh of relief. As much as he appreciated their support, he just wanted to be alone. He trusted them, he did, but he had learned long ago from his father to never show his flaws and weaknesses – not even to the friends he'd trust with his life.

Even now, with just Luna at his side, he fought to remain composed. He needed to be strong . . . at least until she was alone.

"They mean well," he murmured as Luna brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"I've learned a thing or two about meaning well in the past few years," she replied, her eyes flashing. "The worst things in history have come to pass because people had the best intentions."

He sighed again, understanding what she was getting at. Forcing himself to his feet, he said, "I should get some rest."

"I don't think you should stay here alone tonight," she blurted out. He paused, curious, and let her go on. "They came for your mother and took her in the middle of a crowded party, Draco. What's going to stop them coming for you here?"

"What will stop them from coming for me anywhere else?" he retorted.

"I will," she said, shrugging. "When my father rebuilt our house, he cast more than a few wards around it. Unlike your Manor, you can't even see the Rook unless you're invited by someone who lives there."

"You want me to stay at your house?"

"Don't give me that look, Draco. My father is still visiting family in Switzerland and isn't due back for another two weeks, and by then we'll be back at school. Look . . . Other than a few of my closest friends, nobody can even get to the Rook . . . I'll rest easy knowing that you're not going to disappear like your mother."

"Luna, I . . ." He was at a loss, unable to properly form the words with which to refuse her request. On one hand, he was touched that she placed such a great importance on his safety, but on the other . . . he didn't want to put her at risk. "I'm too tired to Apparate," he managed, finally, hoping that it would be enough.

"Then take my hand."

He looked at her, long and hard, and with a single nod he took her hand. His eyes closed as she Disapparated them, and when he opened them they were standing in a bedroom. Plain and sparsely decorated, he couldn't help but notice that though it lacked the grandeur of his own bedroom, there was a touch of comfort that his couldn't hope to achieve.

"I'll see what I can rustle up in the kitchen while you get ready for bed," she said, kissing him on the cheek before disappearing out the door.

Draco took a deep breath as he undressed, for once not even bothered to keep his clothes in a neatly folded pile. Instead, he simply tossed them aside before crawling into bed, wrapping the sheets around him in the hopes that he'd be asleep before Luna arrived.

Instead, sleep eluded him. As tired as he was, he simply could not fall asleep. Staring at the bedside table, he began counting Hippogriffs in his head. He didn't want to break down. He just wanted to sleep – to sleep and not be plagued by the terrified expression that had broken out across his mother's face seconds before she'd been taken. He didn't want to think about how, with his father in Azkaban and his mother kidnapped, he was alone.

It wasn't fair. His mother was all he had left. The war was over, and his family had paid for their sins. His father had been sentenced to life in prison – was that not enough?

Just once, he wished that something like this would happen to someone else's family, and that what little remained of his would be spared.

He wasn't even aware that he was crying unless he felt the pillow become damp beneath his cheek.

The bed dipped beside him, and he stilled. He hadn't realised Luna had returned, and he didn't want her to know he'd been crying. He didn't want her pity or her false words of comfort.

He didn't want to hear anyone promise him that they'd be able to find his mother – because there was no guarantee that he'd ever see her again. He'd fought a war, he'd been a prisoner in his own home . . . he knew full well how foolish it was to cling to hope.

"You don't have to be strong for me, Draco," she said, "Let it out." Her arm snaked out, wrapping around his waist, and she pressed her lips against the nape of his neck.

For about an hour they lay like that, him fighting his tears and her holding him, until at last she sighed and made to wake up. Almost immediately, he tensed. The tears he'd been struggling to hold in were still there, and his throat felt constricted, as though the bony fingers of Death were curling about his throat.

He didn't want her to go.

He didn't want to be alone.

"My room is down the passage if you need anything," she said. "Wake me if you need anything."

"I want you to stay."

 **.o0o.**

He woke the next morning to an insufferable headache.

His head pounding, he groaned as he rolled onto his side, only then realising that he'd been asleep on his couch rather than his bed. As he picked himself up off the ground, he fought down the urge to vomit as the world swam around him.

Blearily, he heard a familiar voice cursing, and he looked up. Whilst nothing looked out of place at first, he quickly zeroed in on the source of the noise. Amber stood beside the table, a guilty expression etched across her face, but one glance at her hands was all it took for his gut to coil as though made of molten lead.

"What are you doing, Amber?" he asked, his eye twitching as he surveyed her.

"Nothing, Harry," she replied, trembling as she took a step back. The fear was evident in her eyes, and he wondered if the rage showed as clearly in his own bloodshot gaze. With more coordination than he'd thought himself capable off, his arm snaked out and grabbed the tiny heart-shaped vial of the table.

One glance at the glossy pink potion within had him flinging the vial at her head.

"Amortentia?" he asked, his voice low in his throat, sounding almost like a growl to his ears. "How long?" Unable to control his anger, he lashed out, his fingers closing around her throat and heaving her into the air.

Amber's nails clawed at his wrists, her eyes bulging in their sockets as he slammed her into the wall. A strangled sob escaped her lips as she fought for breath, but Harry simply cocked his head to the side.

"How long?" he repeated.

"This would have been your first dose," Amber managed, her voice faint, her eyes growing unfocused. He scowled, and for a single moment he entertained the notion of killing her. Then the madness passed, and he released her, taking a step back as she slumped to the ground.

The glistening pink potion dripping down the wall caught his attention, and his anger reignited. Spitting, he grabbed his wand from the nearby end table and aimed.

"Get out," he roared, "Just get the fuck out of my house." His head throbbed, and the world swam around him as he leaned against the doorframe for support, clutching his wand between trembling fingers and pointing it directly at Amber's chest as she struggled to her feet.

The brunette took a step back, and for the first time, Harry saw true fear spread across her face. She'd seen his rages before, but this was definitely the first time in which he'd well and truly lost himself to anger. It was the first time in which they both knew he wouldn't hesitate to curse her through the Floo, one piece at a time if need be, and the realization seemed to startle her.

Well, she'd been the one to truly set free the beast within him, so who was she to take issue that it had inevitably turned against her.

"Harry!" She pouted, a faux mask of concern slipping across her features, and she tried to take a step towards him. A spark of red shot out of his wand, scorching the ground around her feet, and she froze. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I won't ask again," he barked, narrowing his eyes at her. "Get out."

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, until finally, with an indignant sniffle, she gathered her things and turned towards the fireplace. She held her head up high, he noted with disgust, and he felt almost sickened that he had spent so long in a relationship with such a vapid creature.

As she was swallowed by the jade flames, he found himself hating himself. The sensation of loathing was one that he had felt before, but never so severe, and as much as he wanted to blame Amber, Charise, Rebekah, and even Ginny for what he had become . . . he knew that they each had just provided the poison.

He had been the one who'd chosen to drink it.

The room blurred around him as his headache intensified, and he growled as, in what had grown to be a reflex, his hand dove into his pocket in search of the tiny blue vial. Even as he tried to fight down the urge, the first drop was running down his tongue.

The pain dispersed almost instantly, and he felt a looping giddiness as he got to his feet, body still faintly trembling as he felt the strength return to his body. Leaning against the wall, he gnawed at his lip as he made his way across the room, and let out a sigh of relief when he reached the nearby couch.

"Well, who'd have thought the great Harry Potter would be so pathetic?" a cold voice said, and his eyelids flew apart, his eyes wide as he whipped his head around. Heart thudding in his chest, he swallowed, feeling the sting of the words as though they were knives.

"Ginny," he whispered, "How'd you get here?"

Ginny smirked, a cold and cruel expression forming across her lips, and Harry found himself frowning as she walked across the room, her gaze never wavering in its intensity.

"The mighty Harry Potter," she continued, "The saviour of Wizarding Britain, the Chosen One, The-Boy-Who-Lived . . . addicted to drugs and sticking his cock in every slag that bats her eyes at him. It's priceless, isn't it?"

"I don't know how you got here, or what you're trying to accomplish," he retorted, his voice cracking in his throat as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Blinking, he was unable to finish, as she had already begun speaking again.

"What Sirius would say if he saw you now? He died for you, remember? Oh wait, I got that wrong, didn't I? He died _because_ of you."

"Shut up," he snapped, gritting his teeth as he resisted the nagging desire to curse her into oblivion. How dare she bring up Sirius? How . . . how dare she use the name of his godfather against him.

 _Because she's speaking the truth._

A shiver ran down his spine and his wand clattered from his grasp, his fingers twitching as he gazed at her, helpless. It was all coming back to him – every last bit of grief, of guilt, of anger that he'd been repressing since the war – and slamming into him with all the force of a rampaging hippogriff.

Instinctively, as the pain, both the emotional and the physical, came rushing towards him, he uncorked the phial and let a drop run down his tongue. As he set it down, he felt the hatred intensify, and he couldn't bring himself to be conflicted.

He truly was pathetic to dribble the foul potion down his throat without even thinking twice about the consequences – it had become so habitual to him, that even now that he knew what it was doing to him he was unable to stop. Ginny seemed to agree, cackling at him in a voice that was strangely reminiscent of Bellatrix, and he clenched his fists when he heard her speak again.

"Remus left his child behind as an orphan, you know. He believed in you to take care of Teddy after he'd gone. Isn't that sweet – he trusted an addict who's only visited the kid twice since being named Godfather to look after the kid. Why don't you just piss on his grave and be done with it?"

"Shut up."

"Dumbledore? Tonks? Fred? Colin? Cedric? Mad-Eye? Just go take a crap on their ashes while you're at it."

"Shut the fuck up. Just shut your mouth and leave."

"What about your mother?"

He screamed, his voice twisted and inhuman, and without a second of hesitation he had grabbed a vase of the side-table and flung it across the room. The glass whizzed through the air, and Ginny seemed to tense as it neared her, before it passed through her as though she was a ghost.

It shattered against the wall behind her, and he froze, as she stepped forward, walking through the coffee table. Before his eyes, she straddled his hips, and he felt a sense of horror take root in him as she slammed him down against the couch.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," she whispered, running her thumb across his jaw. "I'm all in your head."

Then she vanished, and he was left gasping for air whilst his heart thudded against his ribs.

 **.o0o.**

"Please, please stop," he yelled, his arm lashing out and catching her in the midriff. Gasping, she grabbed his hands, and held him still, even though he was so much stronger than she was.

He yelled out again, still struggling, and she tightened her grasp on him.

"Draco, you're safe. You're fine," she whispered into his ear, pressing her lips to his cheek as he fought her, his eyes clenched shut. She bit her lip, ready to wake him up if he kept struggling, when slowly yet surely he stilled.

His chest rising and falling as he drew breath, she released her grip on his wrists and stared at him. As peaceful as he now looked, she could still tell by the faint sheen of sweat upon his skin and the raised hairs along his arms that, not even moments ago, he had been kicking and screaming like a little child having a nightmare.

She hadn't heard him scream in such a manner since the days when she'd been a captive in his cellar and she'd been able to hear his screams of agony filter down the stairs. She wondered if he knew, even as he tried to hold himself strong, that she had heard him scream, cry, and beg for mercy.

Luna wondered whether she'd have given him the chance to partner with her in potions all those months ago had she not seen firsthand how scarred the war had left him.

As she slipped out of bed, she realised with a start that she didn't know the answer. Would she? He'd held her prisoner for months, after all, even though they'd known each other for years.

Her eyes traced the delicate scars across his body – the jagged line across his elbow, the curve just above his hipbone, the rough claw marks below his nipple . . . he'd suffered, almost as much as the rest of them had, there was no denying it.

Shaking her head, she chose to focus on how innocent and child-like he looked when he slept. His hair tousled, the sheets twisted about him and leaving most of him bare, a few drops of drool running down his chin.

She yawned, shaking her head before flicking her wand to bring her robe flying to her outstretched arm. Slipping it on as she made her way down the stairs, she decided that she definitely needed a glass of Elf-Made Wine if she was to go on pondering her feelings for Draco Malfoy.

She didn't regret inviting him past her protective wards in the slightest; because she knew he'd never hurt her. Did that not count for something? In fact, something about having him beside her had led to the best few hours of sleep she'd had since she'd begun sleeping alone in her home without her father just a few rooms away.

It was strange that she'd let herself become so familiar with a person who, until a few months ago, had been her enemy. A person she had fought against with all that she had.

It didn't make any sense, even to her, and even as that thought came to her mind, so did the realization escape her tongue.

"I'm falling in love with him, aren't I?" she murmured to herself when she got to the kitchen, flicking her wand again to uncork the wine bottle and make it pour its contents into a glass. "Merlin," she whispered, bringing the sweet vintage to her lips and downing the entire glass in one."I love him."

It was days such as these that she wished her mother was still alive, for even though she'd been but a child when her mother had passed, she could still remember that her mother always seemed to know exactly what to do.

She poured out another glass and was about to drink it when she felt the shift in the air and frowned. Someone had passed through the wards, but it was obviously somebody she knew.

The magical signature felt strange though.

Raising her wand, she slowly made her way towards the door, the words of a curse on the tip of her tongue. Very few people could come up to her front door, but for some reason, she just could not put her finger on who this was.

Even though she was sure it was a friend – perhaps they were cloaking their magical signatures for whatever reason – she never let her wand fall. If living through war had thought her anything, it was that constant vigilance was extremely important.

She opened the door, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her fringe as she set eyes upon the visitor. Finally, taking in the dark rings surrounding her eyes and the fatigue so evident in her every movement, she felt a name escape her mouth.

"Hermione?"

* * *

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _I'm not who I used to be," murmured Draco, his lips mere centimetres from her own. He didn't want to pull away, no more than he wanted to run from this as he'd run away from so many other things in his life._

 _He wanted this moment to last forever, and to erase all the pain of yesterday, and every day that had come before._

" _I never asked you to change," replied Luna, leaning in to capture his lips with her own._

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **Hey mates. It's been a while, hasn't it? Unfortunately, my year end exams are almost here and most of my free time is being used to study for them. I might not be able to update my stories as often as I'd like, but these stories are definitely not abandoned.**_

 _ **Thank you so much for all the reviews that have come in so far. You guys are great.**_

 _ **Till next time,**_

 _ **Shane**_


	14. Ninety-Nine Problems

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **Ninety-Nine Problems**

"Hermione."

It was not known for Luna Lovegood to be surprised. In fact, she was sure that had she counted the times in which she'd been surprised on her fingers, she'd still have fingers left over on both hands.

Tonight, though, she was definitely surprised.

It had been months since Hermione had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, nearly an entire year to be honest. Adding to the overall surprise of her return was that Hermione had chosen to her doorstep.

It wasn't that they weren't friends . . . it was more that the two of them had become friends born of necessity, and Luna was not such a fool so as to assume that the older witch was closer to her than to Harry and the Weasleys.

"Can I come in?" Hermione asked. Nodding by way of answer, she stepped to the side to allow her friend entry, before flicking her wand to ensure the Wards were still in place. One could never be too careful in these troubled times, for whilst it was true that the war was over, the recent kidnapping of Narcissa Malfoy had proven that the peace was not as calm as expected. Satisfied at the strength of her protective enchantments, she shut the door.

"Wine?" she offered, stuffing her wand into her robe as she leaned against a kitchen counter.

"Thank you," Hermione replied. Luna nodded before flicking her wand to pour her friend a serving. Glancing at the bottle, she quickly came to the realisation that although she was not a fan of alcohol and rarely drank it, tonight of all nights called for a third glass.

Sipping at the rich liquid, she felt a sort of liquid courage fill her veins.

"How are you?" she asked, "Gin–" she faltered, worries for her best friend pricking at her mind. She swallowed, composing herself, and continued, hoping that Hermione would not pick up on her misstep. Selfish as this would make her, she didn't want to think back to the events of the previous night, and she certainly did not want to share such bitter tidings with her friend the second the girl arrived back in Britain. "Ginny said that you needed to take some time to just get away from everything."

"I'm fine," Hermione replied, and Luna almost – almost – believed her. "I needed some time to be alone with my thoughts."

"You were gone for nearly a year, Hermione," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Every daydream has to break for you to return to the nightmare." A frown crossed Hermione's face as she spoke, her eyes glistening in the soft lighting, and Luna was sure that she was about to burst into tears. Then it was gone, as if someone had flipped a switch, and her friend adopted a more neutral expression. "How are the boys? Ron and Harry?"

"Ron keeps himself busy. I see him at the Leaky now and then with the other Auror trainees. He's doing well, and I hear that Molly's quite taken with Lavender." She paused, noting the flicker of pain that flashed across Hermione's face as she learned that Ron was currently involved with Lavender Brown, but thought nothing off it. As much as she sympathised with Hermione, Luna knew that life could not be put on hold whilst recovering from tragedy.

As her romance with Draco had proved, sometimes love struck in the most unexpected of places, and it was in a way the most powerful healing tool of all.

"Harry, on the other hand, I'm surprised you haven't heard about him from wherever you've been. He has been splashed across every tabloid, after all."

"I was hoping that they'd been exaggerating in the typical Skeeter fashion," said Hermione, tilting her glass forwards when Luna moved to refill it.

"More like watering down the worst of it. The public wants to know about him being a hero, not a teenager gone off the rails. The Quibbler doesn't even bother reporting on him anymore, it's all the same."

"I see."

And that was it. Luna stared, wondering whether or not Hermione was being serious in her reaction, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed like she was. As ashamed as she was to admit it, she, like so many others who had been incapable of getting through to Harry about his womanizing lifestyle, had assumed that everything would go back to normal once Hermione returned.

Hermione was the glue that had held the boys together and kept them both from killing each other, and without her, it was no surprise that they were crumbling. More to the point, Harry was the one falling to pieces, whereas Ron was rising to the challenge and going on with his life.

To say that this was one of the few surprises of her life was an understatement.

It was only then that she realised.

For years, Hermione had been like a candle, shedding light to those around her at her own expense, and she was finally all burned out. Truth be told, Luna was surprised the brunette had lasted this long.

Deciding not to press the issue, she simply opted to look at her friend expectantly, waiting for Hermione to carry on the conversation. Holding her tongue did not come naturally to her, but she knew that some things were better left unsaid.

"What about you and Neville? The pair of you were together when I left," queried Hermione after a few moments of pause. Luna sighed. She had known that this question would eventually be put onto the table . . . and it was better she answer it before Hermione find out that Draco was asleep in her guest bedroom, but she wasn't in the mood for the ensuing tirade that would no doubt spill forth.

She'd already heard about how much of a mistake it was to date Draco from everybody at Hogwarts and their families, after all.

"It's complicated, Hermione, he wanted to settle down and have a white picket fence – and I can't fault him for wanting that after all he's been through. But . . . I never wanted any of that, not now at least. Right now, I want to see the world, discover a few new species and prove the existence of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

You know when I say it out loud, it doesn't sound complicated at all."

"I get it," replied Hermione, a wan smile spreading across her face. "Sometimes you just need to do what's right for you." Her voice was soft, yet strangely level, as if she was fighting to keep it so. In fact, if Luna didn't know any better, she'd have sworn that she'd seen her friend's fingers tremble.

If there was one trait that Luna knew she possessed, it was her intuition, and something told her that Hermione was putting on a show of holding it all together. Everything about her from her smile to her shoulders seemed stiff and on edge, but it was not her place to pry.

Not in the slightest.

"So, other than wanting to ride a dragon, what else do you have in mind?" Hermione continued, and Luna realised with a start that her friend had been talking for the entirety of the time in which she had been mulling. This wasn't like her to miss something so obvious . . . but then again, this past week had not been the easiest for her. Between her boyfriend's kidnapped mother, her best friend being in a coma, and her upcoming N. E. W.T. s among other things, she was being stretched quite thin.

She was about to respond when a dry voice spoke up, and despite never once in her entire life feeling the need to be embarrassed, the look Hermione gave her was enough to call a blush to her cheeks.

"I thought we were taking things slow, love, so what's this I hear about you riding a dragon?" asked Draco, a smirk on his face as he leaned against the doorframe. Shirtless, cocky, and wearing as big a mask as Hermione, he quirked an eyebrow as he added, "Fancy seeing you here, Granger."

 **.o0o.**

"It's rude to stare, Granger," he said, his faux smirk deepening. "Though, catching a glimpse of me without a shirt on is probably a highlight for you."

"I've seen better," she replied, her tone dripping with acid and scorn. "What in Merlin's name are you doing in Luna's house?" He could see it in her eyes – the denial – because it was so evident that she'd want to deny the truth of what she was seeing. Deep down, he knew her mind had already made the connection . . . but like all the rest of Luna's friends, they were hoping that they were wrong.

It irritated him, to be honest.

"Draco and I are seeing each other," Luna replied, "And given recent events, I've offered to let him live with me."

"More like insisted," he pointed out. Luna winked, and for just a fraction of a second he let his lips curl into a smile. "My turn to ask a question," he said, rolling his eyes as he approached the table. "What brings you back from Down Under?"

She started, her eyes widening, and he couldn't help but savour the moment of getting one over on the great and all-knowing Granger, the brains behind the famous and heroic Golden Trio. It felt quite satisfying, in fact, to be one step ahead of her for once.

The amused expression worn by Luna was also rather helpful.

"H– How?"

"I'm a Malfoy, Granger. We have our ways."

"Funny, because I remember spending a year on the run without a whiff of your Malfoy ways during the war," she snapped. Draco felt his smirk begin to slip, and hastily rearranged his features to maintain his façade. It would never do to let his concern for his mother slip through – to anyone, even to Luna – because as his father had always told him, showing your emotions was the greatest weakness of them all.

He opened his mouth to retort, and then shut it again when he felt Luna's calming hand upon his forearm. Subtly shaking her head, she said,

"Look, I know the two of you aren't exactly fans of each other, but could you at least pretend to be tolerant when you're in my home."

"When in Rome," he said. Granger nodded, and he heard Luna breathe a sigh of relief. Instantly, he felt a pang within his chest. He had known from the very beginning that a relationship between the two of them would be difficult for her, but knowing and seeing it first-hand were two very different concepts. Clearing his throat, he turned to Luna,

"I've just received a message from Blaise. He's asking if you'd mind if Pansy, Theo, and he swung by tomorrow so we could strategize." Ignoring the curious glint in Granger's eyes, he went on, "According to Theo's contact in the Auror Office, they're more interested in capturing the Gemini Sisters than in rescuing Mother."

"I'll key them into the wards," Luna replied, pursing her lips. Turning back to their unexpected visitor, she went on, "You're staying the night, right?" Granger nodded, and Draco could literally see her mentally wrestling between wanting to remain tactful and needing to be clued into what was going on.

Well, she could just keep guessing for the nonce. He was in no mood to explain the entire sorry situation again.

"That would be much appreciated," Granger said. As the girls began to discuss sleeping arrangements, Draco yawned and straightened up. Pressing his lips to his girlfriend's cheek for a brief second – much to Granger's evident disapproval – he turned on his heel and padded his way back to the guest room.

Maybe, one day in the future, he'd be able to look back at this and laugh about the absurdity of living under the same roof as Granger off all people. Right now, though, all he wanted to do was fall asleep.

Catching a glimpse of the stars out the window, he paused. The Black Family, scattered across the heavens, lost amongst the canvas of night. Unlike the rest of them, though, his mother does not dwell with the rest. Named for a flower and not a star, his mother was one of the strongest women that he knew. He had faith that she'd survive this, faith that was dwindling with every passing second.

Throughout the war, it had been his mother who had held their family together. His mother had been raised by the same people who had raised Bellatrix, the darkest witch to have lived since Morgana. Hell, he'd seen his mother outduel his father, and he'd watched her endure a Cruciatus from Voldemort himself without screaming.

She'd been willing to give all she had to keep him safe, and now it was his turn to pay her back. The Greys made pride themselves on their criminal empire, but in his opinion the family had finally grown too big for their boots.

The Malfoys had been royalty in the days when the Greys had been an impoverished cadet branch of the Blacks, and he would be damned if he let these upstarts tear down an empire that had been generations in the making. The Aurors could go about their little investigations, but he would personally use every means at his disposal to get his mother home.

"I'll find you," he whispered. "Even if I have to start another war to do so."

Then, he felt soft hands upon his sides, and he heard Luna's voice, "Will you now?"

"If I have to."

"I don't believe you."

" _I'm not who I used to be," murmured Draco, his lips mere centimetres from her own. He didn't want to pull away, no more than he wanted to run from this as he'd run away from so many other things in his life._

 _He wanted this moment to last forever, and to erase all the pain of yesterday, and every day that had come before._

" _I never asked you to change," replied Luna, leaning in to capture his lips with her own._

 **.o0o.**

The first thing she became aware of was the sterile stench of ammonia and antiseptic which clouded her nostrils. The second thing, interestingly enough, was that if she could smell, then she was most certainly alive.

Or was she?

Who could tell what exactly the rules of heaven – or hell, though the lack of fire, sulphur, and brimstone cursed a giant hole into that theory – were?

The world was blurry as she slid open her eyes, having come to the conclusion that the only way in which she could be sure of her mortality was if she took stock of her surroundings. She didn't remember much from before the darkness, other than the brief flash of light.

Obviously, the Death Eaters had managed to get the jump on her, and the only person she could blame was herself. She had been foolish to let down her guard in such a public and unprotected setting.

She took in the starched, white line of the bed she was on, and the pale green curtains drawn around it. The metal railings, the lifeless cream walls . . . if this wasn't St. Mungo's, she was most a Niffler's aunt.

Though, why would she be in St. Mungo's? Wasn't the hospital under enemy control? Why would they admit her here?

All at once, it struck her. She had survived the attack, and rather than kill her, they'd taken her prisoner and were now healing her. Why? The answer to that question was just as obvious.

They obviously assumed that she knew something and thus wanted to interrogate her. A chill ran down her spine at the very thought . . . she had heard stories of what they did when questioning captives, and if even half of the stories were true, then the Cruciatus was the least of her worries.

"Ginny? Ginny, you're awake."

"Percy?" she groaned, blinking as her brother flitted into her field of vision. He smiled, and suddenly, she knew that she was dead. There was simply no way that Percy would be here, smiling at her, unless of course, they both were dead and in heaven.

Wait. Wait. Wait . . .

What was Percy doing in heaven? She'd been certain he was going to end up on the other side.

"Ginny, are you OK?" Percy asked, a look of concern spreading across his pale face. His hand closed around her wrist, and she shied away, fumbling for her wand with her free hand. Not finding it, she yanked her hand away and glared at her brother.

"Get away from me, scumbag," she yelled, her jaw quivering. She could remember it all, every betrayal that he'd showered upon their family, and she'd be damned if she let a family-disowning, power-hungry, Ministry-loving prat lay a finger on her.

His touch had been enough to dispel the brief moment of madness, and all at once she realized that she was merely a prisoner of the enemy.

Percy recoiled as though slapped. "Ginny," he said, "Ginny, what's wrong with you?"

"Get away from me," she screamed, "Or so help me, I'll jinx you so hard you won't be able to feel your own face." Thoughts roared through her mind. Where were her parents? Where were Bill and Fleur? Fred and George? She knew that Charlie was in Romania, and that Ron was on the run with Harry and Hermione.

The Order? How could Remus and the others not have staged a rescue for her by now? How long had she been out?

Gasping for breath, she swung herself out of bed, stumbling and nearly falling as she landed on her feet. Without hesitating, she ripped aside the curtains, and grabbed the nearest weapon she could find.

Her hands closed around the crutch, and she ignored the protests of the patient in the next bed – obviously its owner – before swinging it behind her at her brother. Percy yelled as he ducked beneath it, dodging at the last minute.

"Ginny, calm down," he shouted, pulling himself backwards when she swung the crutch again. Gritting her teeth, she slammed it forward, finally landing a blow.

Percy yelped, his voice higher than she'd ever imagined it could go, as the crutch made contact between his legs. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, and Ginny turned on her heel to make for the door.

She'd have to escape on her own, it seemed.

Reaching the door, she swung it open, when out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Percy slashing his wand through the air and firing off a streak of red light.

 _Not again,_ she thought as she crumpled.

 **.o0o.**

"Amnesia? You're having me on, aren't you?" he asked, looking up from the case files Rhea had him scrutinizing. It was unfortunate, actually, that as a trainee he wasn't yet allowed more than five hours of field work a week, because this left him with the one thing he truly loathed in the world.

Studying.

Thankfully, he happened to be working with two Ravenclaws. Terry and Padma had both taken pity on him, and as was typical for the members of their House, they'd insisted on handling the bulk of the work. A large part of him suspected this had a lot to do with the fact that they didn't trust his ability to actually solve a problem.

Who could really blame him? He was a Gryffindor, after all, and when he saw a knot to undo his first thought was to cut it, burn it, or blast it out of the way. The Ravenclaws on the other hand, always wanted to understand and unravel the knots.

"She apparently thinks that the war is still on, that Percy's still a traitor, and that Fred's. . ."

"That's Fred's still alive," he finished, looking up at his brother. George looked more strained now than he had in months. He seemed almost grey, and for the first time since Christmas, Ron could smell the heavy stench of Firewhisky on his brother's breath. "Merlin," he swore. "Do Mum and Dad know?"

"Percy left the hospital at about the same time as I did. He said he'd tell them."

"What are the Healers saying?" he asked, letting the file fall shut. It was time to give his brother his full attention – this had ceased to be a friendly visit, and now, once again, his family was at risk.

"They're running tests. They suspect spell damage, but aren't sure," replied George, pursing his lips. "I just thought you should hear it from one of us, rather than from the Healers when you go to visit her. I need to get home. The shop opens tomorrow and I have a lot left to do."

"Yeah, sure," said Ron, waving his brother off. Instead, he was thinking back to the other night, and what exactly it had been which had sent his sister out onto the street.

An argument with Harry.

Suddenly, he wasn't really feeling like helping his former best friend at all. In fact, knowing what he knew now, he'd wring Harry's neck himself if he could. His mother would look back and say that Harry had saved almost every member of his family at least once . . . when the actual truth was that Harry was the reason most of them had been in danger in the first place.

Merlin, he just couldn't do this alone anymore. He needed Hermione, but Merlin knew where she was. It was somewhat ironic. He'd spent so many years trying to act as though they didn't need her around to survive, when the sad fact was that he knew perfectly well how crucial she was to their trio.

Harry and he would both have died in First Year if not for her.

It was a few minutes later that he realised he was alone in the office, and a few minutes later when he realised why. Parvati and Terry were gone, and judging by the hands of the clock, they'd been gone for nearly an hour.

How long, exactly, had he spent so deep in thought that he hadn't even heard his friends when they'd said their customary goodbyes? Shaking himself, he looked back to the file and opened it. There was still a lot for him to go through on his own, and any clue he could find would be integral to the Field-Aurors currently hunting the infamous Gemini Sisters.

"Weasley, you're here late," came a voice from the doorway, and looking up, he smiled at the sight of Rhea walking into the office. Hair pulled into a high ponytail, with her blouse splattered with blood, she seemed the very image of a woman who had just gone to war.

"Rough raid?" he asked, gesturing at her top.

"You could say that?" she replied, hopping up to perch on the edge of his desk. "Nine dead, three arrested, and two Aurors in St. Mungo's. On the bright side, we closed down one of their brothels."

"You realise that this is just going to end up pissing them off?" he pointed out.

"I'm not an idiot, Ron," she said, "But crippling their operations is the only thing we can do right now. It's not easy, either, I've been working this case for years and this is the second operation we've managed to shut down. I don't know, they're just always two steps ahead of us."

He remained silent, not knowing what to say. From what he'd learned so far, the Greys empire spanned over most of Europe, North America, Africa, and parts of Asia . . . and they hadn't built it by playing nice. The Gemini Sisters alone were proving to be almost untraceable, to the point where not even their magical signatures could be traced.

It was infuriating, and he could only imagine how Rhea felt.

"Go visit your sister, Ron, and then go home. Get some rest, tomorrow is going to be a long day." She sighed, a wan smile crossing her face. "I'll be stopping by Potter's place on the way home. Hopefully, I'll be able to have a few words with him concerning his recent indiscretions."

"A few words?" asked Ron, raising an eyebrow.

"And if that fails, I'll drag his ass into a dark room and lock him in there till every last drop of those potions are out of his system."

* * *

 **In the Next Chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _Potter, you don't even know far of the reservation you've gone, have you?" asked Rhea, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline as she watched him._

 _He glared at her, feeling a sullen sort of rage take a hold of him. Who was she to take away what made him happy? Who was she to admonish him for enjoying his life?_

" _Potter, can you even bloody hear me?"_

" _I don't really think he cares . . ." He smiled as he heard her voice, soft, mesmerising, and sweet. Purring as she ran her fingers through his hair, he looked up at her as she perched upon the edge of his sofa._

" _Tamara," muttered Rhea, her eyes narrowing. She raised her wand, her lips pressing together to form a thin line. "Still doing the Grey's dirty work, are you?" Harry growled, aggravated at Rhea for insulting his source of potion. He made to get to his feet, but stumbled, and Tamara ran a hand along his neck._

" _Shhh, Harry, I'll handle this one." She bared her fangs, delicate, white, and pointed, and leapt at Rhea just as the Auror fired off a curse._

* * *

 _ **A/n: Hello mates.**_

 _ **It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, sadly, it's exam season, which means that a large amount of my time is being uses on studying. The next update should be in about three weeks, after the exams are over, so I hope you can all bear with me.**_

 _ **Ciao Mate**_

 _ **-Shane**_


	15. There Will Be Blood

**Lovers and Liars**

 **.o0o.**

 **There Will be Blood**

Since the end of the Second Wizarding War, there had been quite a significant rise in the number of young couples throughout Wizarding Britain. It was only natural, Luna thought, given that the war had reminded people of their mortality. A part of he wondered, though, if even a quarter of these romances would last the next five years or so.

Perhaps, her own love story had been kindled, in part, by the knowledge that she was only mortal. Of course, she had always known that she would one day pass on from this world, but at the same time, the casualties of war had stripped from her the morbid sureties of youth.

Despite her own misgivings on the subject, something told her that the people she was about to call on were definitely made for each other. They complimented each other like the clouds did the sky, and of course, she'd watched their relationship blossom within the Ravenclaw common room for the six years.

Patiently, she waited upon the porch of their modest two bedroom home after rapping her knuckles against the door. It was still early in the day, but there was much for her to do, and little time for her to do it.

Terry Boot and Padma Patil had danced around each other for years; each falling in love with the other without thinking their feelings were reciprocated. Luna wasn't really sure what it had been that had finally brought them together, but she suspected it had been the fear that had gripped them all during that faithful year during which Death Eaters had controlled Hogwarts.

In a way, that fear had been what had led her to becoming involved with Neville. Thinking about her failed relationship with the newest addition to the staff of Hogwarts was not in the least bit painful, she found, which was somewhat strange.

Draco, though, was another story altogether.

They had not been dating long, but Luna knew that she was in love with the platinum-blond. It was only this morning that she had realised how much. It had been before the dawn when they'd lain awake upon her bed, and he'd looked her in the eye and told her that he'd do anything to save his mother.

It was only then, when she'd felt his heartbeat beneath her cheek, that she'd realised that she'd fight for him, did she realise how far in love she'd fallen. It had shocked her . . . but she had nevertheless accepted it.

After all, she knew he'd do the same for her, regardless of what the world around them proclaimed.

Just at that moment, the front door swung open and she was greeted by a smiling Terry Boot. Dressed in a rather ragged T-shirt and his boxers, he shivered slightly as the cool morning air snaked its way into the house, and Luna could tell that she had interrupted something. His smile did seem a little forced, and the hickeys on his neck were rather fresh.

Though more acquaintances than friends, she had built a rather strong working relationship with both Terry and Padma during the war, one which was built on mutual respect and trust. She needed their help. They both were Aurors – arguably, still in training – but with Ron's recent familial problems and Harry probably sleeping off a hangover, they were the only two people she could think off who could help Draco and herself.

After all, his Slytherin allies had their sources, but she was the only one who could gather information held by the Aurors.

"Luna," said Terry, stifling a faux yawn and running a hand through his tousled hair. "What a surprise."

"May I come in?" she asked, smiling widely at him, and if her smile was somewhat forced . . . well, who could blame her.

"This really isn't a good tim–"

"Let her in," called another voice, cooler and feminine. Terry frowned for a minute before stepping aside. With a shrug, he gestured for her to come in, and she obliged with a nod.

Padma's clear, calculating gaze bored twin holes into brow from the minute she entered the living room, and Luna could almost hear the gears whirring in the other woman's head. Pleasantries were exchanged, and with a feeling that could have very well passed for guilt, Luna realised she had intruded upon their day off.

"Let's not beat about the bush, Luna," said Padma, her face expressionless and smooth. "Are you here on your own volition, or did Malfoy send you?" Beside her, Terry's eyes glinted with suspicion. Luna sighed, taking a deep breath to calm herself before answering, taking care to keep her weigh her words before they left her lips.

After all, she had to tread carefully. She did not doubt that Terry and Padma would help her if she needed it, but they would only go so far . . . and they would certainly not risk their careers for the sake of her boyfriend or his mother.

"My own," she said. "Draco doesn't put much faith in the Auror Department."

"I don't blame him." Shrugged Terry. "He's lucky Pierce is heading up the case, since Robards was all for doing the bare minimum and covering the bases. Honestly, Luna, I don't like Malfoy, never did, probably never will, but I'm not happy with the way Robards handled the investigation."

Padma took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as if resigning herself, before she pressed her lips into a thin line. Luna looked at her, wondering what was running through the Indian girl's mind, when Padma said, "And Terry and I are pretty sure there's a leak in the Auror Department."

"The Gemini Sisters are too well informed. Auror Pierce is keeping it under wraps, for now, but – " She fell silent. Her nails trailed across Terry's thigh for a second, and Luna noticed that the subtle pinch, not that she was supposed to. Reacting almost instantly, Terry frowned and rose to his feet.

"We've said too much already," he said, pursing his lips.

Nodding understandably, Luna rose to her feet and thanked them both for their assistance. However grudgingly it had been given, her friends had still told her all she needed to know. Theo and Blaise had both suspected as much, but it had been important that she be sure about who she could trust in the Auror Department.

As he let her own the door, Terry whispered, "It's only a matter of time before the Gemini Sisters retaliate in some way or the other. Take care of yourself."

"You too, Terry," she replied.

Turning on her heel and letting the suffocating blackness envelop her, she vanished with a low pop, all the while hoping that this Auror Pierce was as trustworthy as her friends had implied.

Or at any rate, that Pierce herself was not the leak.

 **.o0o.**

The morning was cool, a fresh, crisp breeze blowing from the east to tousle her hair. She sighed, her breath misting as it left her lips, and tightened her grip on the wrought-iron balustrades of the balcony. The cold metal bit into her palms, and yet she felt no pain.

She was past the point of feeling.

Like a thief in the night, she had fled Australia after the magnitude of her folly had come to her knowledge. Looking back, she could see a dozen alternatives methods of keeping her parents safe, from the Fidelius Charm to requesting that they be concealed in the same manner as the Dursleys. All of those options were fraught with complications, and her parents may have perished anyway, but in what she believed to be her most selfish moment . . . she wished that they'd been killed by Death Eaters, rather than being driven mad by her spell.

At least then she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her days weighed down by the guilt.

Shawn had tried to break her from her slump in those faithful few days following her discovery, but she had found that the sound of his voice now grated on her nerves. It was not just him, though. Food, however delicious, tasted like cardboard, and even the air had seemed to have lost a little bit of its freshness.

She had needed to leave . . . and she just wasn't strong enough for another goodbye.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stared out across the surrounding hills. If memory served, they were quite beautiful, but all she saw was a barren landscape bleached of colour.

The Rook, as it was called by the Lovegoods, must have once been a holdfast of some sort, she thought, as she surveyed the surrounding lands. It was not uncommon, she had learned during her History of Magic lessons, for Purebloods to held titles and positions of power during the medieval era. Before the signing of the International Statue of Secrecy, and before the Muggle-Wizarding wars that had come before those conflicts, it had been Wizards who had sat the Throne.

Perhaps she could be mistaken, but she could swear that the Tudors had been a cadet branch of the House of Black.

She chided herself. This was not the time for history lessons. This was not the time for her to try and feel better by sinking back into her studious ways.

Now was the time to mourn . . . to grieve for the parents she had lost by her own hand.

"Tea?"

She started. Whipping around, she drew her wand as if by instinct, the words of the stunning spell tickling the very tip of her tongue. Hermione froze, however, upon catching sight of the man standing across from her, eyes wide in surprise.

Draco Malfoy held a cup of steaming tea in each hand, his pale brows disappearing into his bedhead as he took a step back. Something about his appearance struck a chord in her – it was almost as though he appeared vulnerable.

"Merlin, Granger, I come in peace."

Shivering slightly, she stowed her wand back into the waistband of her sweatpants. She blinked, her arms trembling, half from the cold and half from something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Since when have you ever come in peace?" she snapped, her lips curling into a scowl.

"Since Luna," he retorted, his tone lacking the cynical bite she'd grown accustomed through over the years. "Since she gave me something to believe in." He shrugged, obviously noting the scepticism she didn't even bother to conceal.

It was people like him who'd cost her everything in the first place. She'd testified in his defence during his trial . . . and then she'd gone to find her parents and realized the price she'd had to pay for her part in the war.

Their lives.

The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she fought to suppress them. She would not give Malfoy any reason to see her weep – she would not give him more ammunition to torment her with as he had for her entire Hogwarts career.

"So, you've turned over a new leaf, have you?" Her tone was icy to her own ears, her teeth gritted as tears stung at her eyes. He seemed to notice, and before she could comprehend what was happening, he'd set the tea down on the ledge and come up beside her. "I'd have believed that once. Now, I know that hoping for the best is something reserved for fairytales."

"What happened to you, Granger? You've never been this cold." Malfoy, for his part, did seem genuinely concerned. However, she refused to let herself be fooled. Luna had always been a dreamer, and perhaps this was the most fanciful one yet, but Hermione refused to let herself be drawn into it.

She had enough broken dreams of her own to last her for a lifetime, anyway.

"The war took more from me than you will ever know," she finally replied, closing her eyes to keep her tears hidden as best she could. Hopefully, that would be enough to deter him from bothering her.

Unfortunately, Malfoy seemed to take her words as an invitation to continue their conversation.

"Believe me, Granger, I know better than most what the war has cost the people who fought in it. Or are you forgetting that my father's serving a life sentence and my mother's currently being held captive by a Grey."

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes, and there were no fresh tears. Instead, she could feel a strange sense of calm spreading over her. Her lips parted, and she spoke,

"A prison has visiting hours, and you're rich enough to pay whatever ransom that the Greys demand in return for your mother. Your parents are still _alive._ You still have the chance to see them again. My parents are dead. I will never get the chance to hug my mother again, and I'll never get to hear my father's voice. I lost everything because of people like you. So don't tell me that our situations are the same."

"Granger . . . I had no idea."

"What did you think would happen when you decided to support a genocide, Malfoy? Who am I kidding? They were just two more worthless Muggles to you, weren't they?"

Her voice was still and frigid, and without another word she turned on her heel and disappeared back into the Rook. She didn't look back, not once, and later, as she slammed the door shut and collapsed against it, the tears finally streaming free, she convinced herself that his final whispered words had been a hallucination brought on by her grief.

Because if there was one thing in the world she was sure off, it would be that Draco Malfoy did not possess the ability to say: _I'm sorry._

 **.o0o.**

The world was foggy when she woke.

It was hard to tell, but her first realization upon coming too was that she'd been sedated. To be sure, she hadn't any personal experience on the subject, but she did remember the groggy, dazed expressions worn by both her father and eldest brother during their stints in St. Mungo's.

Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what had happened to her. Dimly, she was aware that she had been captured by the Ministry and that they'd assigned Percy the job of watching her, but that was all that she could call to mind. With what little she knew of the Mind Arts, she focused, and had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming at the stabbing sensation in her head.

It felt as though there was a ragged, gaping hole in her mind, as if someone had hacked at her memories with a cleaver, and the edges were still raw to the metaphorical touch. It had to be curse damage – what else could it be?

Remembering what had happened the last time she'd tried to escape, she resolved to be more careful. Cracking open her eyes to slits, she surveyed her surroundings, and a quick glance was all it took to inform her that she'd been moved to a private room.

Obviously, the Death Eaters didn't want her letting the rest of the world know where it was that she was located. They were running scared, she thought, as well they should. It was only a matter of time before the Order blasted through the doors with Fred leading the charge, and rescued her from these foul, loathsome servants of Voldemort.

"Merde, you're awake," a soft, familiar voice swore, and she cursed inwardly that the person was out of her line of sight. She needed to see it with her own eyes – her sister-in-law was a traitor, evidently – but she needed to see it to truly believe it.

Craning her head to the left, she caught sight of blonde hair and an ethereally beautiful face, and she felt bile rise to her throat. She didn't want to accept it . . . she hadn't wanted it to be true, not after both she and her mother had welcomed this harlot into their family.

"Phlegm," she muttered, wrinkling her nose. "I should have known you were a traitor."

Unfazed, Fleur simply shook her head and turned her attention back to the knitting needles in her hands. They clicked together as she worked, and Ginny was just about ready to scream when the French woman spoke, her accent not as strong as it was the last time they'd spoken,

"It seems that both of our mothers have finally found something in common. Apparently, it is good luck to knit your baby's first blanket yourself."

"Baby?" Ginny glared, dumbfounded at the casual tone in which Fleur spoke, and even more flabbergasted that a baby had been thrown into the mix. It made no sense at all . . . nothing was making sense.

Why would Fleur defect if she was pregnant?

"Soon, hopefully," continued Fleur, a light blush staining her cheeks. "Bill and I have been trying for a while." Ginny suddenly felt extremely hot, her cheeks burning as the words sank in. Despite her usually brash and upfront way of handling things, this was not quite the conversation she'd like to have about her brothers.

Seeming to realize that she'd embarrassed the younger girl, Fleur let out a throaty laugh. "I apologise if I have made you uncomfortable. I miss my own sister; it has been a while since we've seen each other. We speak freely of such things."

"You just saw her for your wedding a week ago!" snapped Ginny. "Whatever game you're playing, it's not going to work."

"I have been married for nearly a year, Ginny," replied Fleur, still speaking in a light, conversational tone. "I suppose I should tell the Healer you're awake, but he should be doing his rounds in a few minutes."

"Healer?"

Fleur pondered for a few minutes, a flicker of concern crossing her eyes. Then, she took a deep breath, and set down her needles.

"You are under the influence of an exceptionally powerful memory charm, I am afraid. The Healers are . . . doubtful you will ever be able to regain the memories of the past year and a half, but Bill has been meeting with every curse breaker he knows. We will find a way, my dear."

"I . . . I don't believe you." Even to her own ears, her words did not ring true. Nothing made sense when she thought about it, and yet, when she took into account what Fleur had said, sense began to emerge from the turbulence of her mind.

Could it be that her sister-in-law was indeed telling the truth? Was she simply suffering the effects of a curse? The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. But if that were true, why had she been the one targeted?

Perhaps, she reasoned, the vestigial bands of Former Death Eaters still evading capture had, much in the same way that Bellatrix had gone after the Longbottoms, thought that revenge was all they had left. If that was the case, she was lucky to have gotten off so lightly.

Sombrely, she looked up at the Frenchwoman and pursed her lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out, till at last she forced herself the only question now nestled in the forefront of her thoughts.

"But I will get my memories back, won't I?"

Fleur sighed, and for the briefest of moments, her mask of calm broke to be replaced with an expression of utmost sorrow. Then it was gone, and the older woman merely shook her head before replying,

"Considering all that has happened in the past two years, I would think it a kindness that their loss is permanent."

 **.o0o.**

He was in the company of a woman.

Long-legged with full breasts, he found her to be quite . . . ravishing. Indeed, everything about her, from her ivory skin to her luscious, red lips screamed seduction, and he could only hope to bed her before she left.

Since Amber had betrayed him in the same manner that everyone else had, by using him for his fame and money, his life had been painfully devoid of the joy that lay between a woman's legs. And even better, this woman, who stroked his hair with one hand and let the other travel down his body, had brought with her the potion.

One drop had been all it took to take away the pain.

Her skin was cold, like ice, and it was awfully hard, almost like marble. Her chest barely moved, and had he not known better, Harry would have sworn that she was dead.

"Tamara," he whimpered.

"Yes, my love," she simpered, running a nail down the side of his face. "Do you need another drop?" Tantalisingly, she wafted the tiny blue vial under his nose, a smirk on her face. There was something wrong, he could tell, if only barely, but for the life of him he wasn't sure what it was. He just couldn't put his finger on it . . . not now that he felt so good in her embrace.

He doesn't recall how exactly he'd met Tamara, but he could vaguely remember their first union. Her nails were like claws, her teeth like knives, and it had been a frenzy of blood and passion beneath the light of the full moon.

Knockturn, he remembered, he'd met her in Knockturn, and . . . he couldn't remember the rest.

He frowned, shaking his head as he teased apart his lips. Even as he tried to avoid it, wanting to clear his head and remember, he felt a droplet of potion dissolve upon his tongue.

Almost immediately, everything was forgotten. He smiled – it felt good not to be worried about anything anymore. Tamara was right, the potion helped keep him happy. It was important. He shouldn't fight the urges.

He giggled at the sound of the doorbell being rung. Perhaps it was one of Tamara's friends stopping by to drop off another few vials of potion. Through the fogginess of his mind, he could with great effort remember that the supplier's name was Jaina . . . or was it Jillian?

Julia! Her name was Julia!

"Kreacher," he mumbled, "Could you get the door?"

"Of course, Master Harry," muttered the elf, and Harry frowned at the obvious disapproval evident in Kreacher's voice. He wondered what it was about. There was nothing wrong with this picture, so perhaps there was something wrong with his servant?

Maybe it was time he began searching for a new house elf.

His musings were interrupted by Kreacher, who cleared his throat, and in a voice that was hoarser than usual, declared,

"Master Harry, there is a Miss Pierce here to see you."

"Mother of Morgana," murmured Rhea as she came into view, her nose wrinkling into an expression of obvious distaste. She'd always been rather pretentious and opposed to fun, so that was to be expected, reasoned Harry. Why was she here, though? Shouldn't be at work bossing the others around?

"Potter, you don't even know far of the reservation you've gone, have you?" asked Rhea, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline as she watched him.

He glared at her, feeling a sullen sort of rage take a hold of him. Who was she to take away what made him happy? Who was she to admonish him for enjoying his life?

"Potter, can you even bloody hear me?"

"I don't really think he cares . . ." He smiled as he heard her voice, soft, mesmerising, and sweet. Purring as she ran her fingers through his hair, he looked up at her as she perched upon the edge of his sofa.

"Tamara," muttered Rhea, her eyes narrowing. She raised her wand, her lips pressing together to form a thin line. "Still doing the Grey's dirty work, are you?" Harry growled, aggravated at Rhea for insulting his source of potion, and by extension the lovely woman he was sleeping with. He made to get to his feet, but stumbled, and Tamara ran a hand along his neck.

"Shhh, Harry, I'll handle this one." She bared her fangs, delicate, white, and pointed, and leapt at Rhea just as the Auror fired off a curse. Harry cussed under his breath, struggling to get to his feet, even as a jet of blue light missed him by an inch.

Across the room, Tamara was moving with a speed that defied the laws of physics, artfully ducking and weaving her way through the mesh of spells flung her way. Rhea, for her part, appeared to be doing all she could to keep the vampire at bay.

" _Incisura_ ," shrieked Rhea, an arc of purple light lashing out from her wand and narrowly missing Tamara. The curse seemed to trigger something in him, even as the vampire smirked and tossed the auror across the room, and in his mind's eye, he was launched back to a rooftop on his first field mission.

He cried out, clutching at memories began to flood his senses. Amber and her love potion. The Splinching. His suspension from the Auror Office. His training: Terry, goofing off at every turn, and Padma, rolling her eyes and kicking her boyfriend in the shin at least three times a day. Neville, rising through the ranks and proving himself despite never needing to; Ron . . . oh Merlin, Ron. It all came flooding back, and suddenly, he saw a woman smiling at him with red hair and brown eyes.

Ginny.

Then, there was a sharp crack, and he looked up, forcing his eyes open despite the pain. Rhea was on her feet, leaning against a wall, bloody with her left arm hanging at an awkward angle. Across the room, Tamara was pinned against a wall, struggling to fight whatever it was that was holding her, and apart from the odd scratch here and there, she looked perfect.

At the door stood Kreacher, bulbous eyes narrowed in rage, and the locket of Regulus Black practically shone. A single gnarled finger was directed at the vampire, and it shocked Harry that the elderly elf was able to so easily subdue a creature as powerful as Tamara.

"I am five hundred years old, you wretched elf!" Tamara spat, her eyes glinting with malice. "Do you really think your magic can stop me?"

"Kreacher does not need to stop you. Kreacher merely has to maim you and let Miss Pierce finish the job."

At that, the elf brought up his other hand, and though it shook like a spindly tree in a gale, he clenched his fist. Tamara screamed, and blood blossomed from her lips. Her limbs twisted, the bones snapping in a series of harsh cracks, and then the elderly elf was on his knees, gasping for breath.

Tamara fell with a howl, but Harry only had eyes for his elf as Rhea crossed the room with a broken chair leg in hand to finish the job. Kreacher coughed, and bracing a leathery hand against an overturned table, staggered to his feet.

"Master Harry will excuse Kreacher for not cleaning this mess up immediately," said the elf, a rattling groan escaping his lips. "In the future, Kreacher would also insist that Master Harry not invite hussies into the house."

Harry could only laugh, before slumping to the floor whilst the world around him swam, eventually fading to black.

* * *

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _Now that we've covered the fact that I look like hell smothered in batshit, why're you here, Ron?" he asked, when it became apparent that the other man was at a loss for words._

 _Ron shrugged, looking pained, and then replied, "I thought I'd check up on you. Rhea's an amazing Auror, a fantastic leader, and one hell of a woman . . . but she's absolute crap at being a host."_

 _He couldn't help the cry of mirth that escaped his lips, and before he knew it, he was laughing in a way that he hadn't in months. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, and it flowed as though someone had knocked down the dam. Ron stared at him as though he had gone mad, and perhaps he had, but there was no stopping now._

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_

 _ **It's been a long time without you, my friend. *Sings***_

 _ **Hullo Mates.**_

 _ **Well, this update has taken its sweet time getting here, and I blame myself. Life has been intense, and I've only recently picked up my laptop and started writing again.**_

 _ **Hopefully, this chapter has been worth the wait, and I hope to have the next one done shortly.**_

 _ **-Ciao Mates**_


	16. Do You Remember The First Time

**Lovers and Liars**

 **Do You Remember the First Time?**

 **.o0o.**

"I know where they're holding Narcissa," said Theo, not even pausing to slip off his coat as he entered the room.

The breath seemed to leave his lungs at his friend's words. They had been discussing their plan of action all morning, the four of them, waiting for Theo to return from a meeting with his agents and informants. For Draco, it was something he had been waiting for since his friends had first assured him that they would help in the search, and it took all his restraint to not immediately demand the location, set out for it at once, and no doubt end up getting himself killed.

He was a Slytherin, he reminded himself, not a foolhardy Gryffindor. The only way to save his mother, no matter where she was being held, was to emulate her cunning nature. To go against the Greys head first would be tantamount to suicide – they would need a plan.

"Spit it out, Theo, and stop trying to prolong the suspense," Pansy snapped, her voice sharp as it cracked across the room. "Unless the information is planning on leaving your mouth on the wings of a peacock, I don't see the reason for the drama."

"As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted." Theo paused to glare at Pansy. "The Gemini Sisters own a sizable plot of land in the South of Wales. There doesn't appear to be anything built upon the land, but appearances can be deceiving. Your mother is an incredibly intelligent woman, Draco. She left enough breadcrumbs in the area for me to be certain that there's a magically concealed fortress of some sort on that land, and that if we infiltrate it, we'll be able to rescue her."

"Infiltrate?" asked Luna, her usually serene voice laced with caution. "One wrong move and we'd all be hauled in front of the Wizengamot for starting a small war, or worse, killed."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say we could die," pointed out Blaise, "But if we become vigilantes, there's no telling what the repercussions would be. Need I remind you that we are all, save for Luna, basically people that the rest of the Wizarding World is itching to see behind bars?"

"He's right," said Draco, finally, rising to his feet. "At best, we'll get my mother back and be hauled away for breaking the law, and at worse, we'll be buried in unmarked graves. The Gemini Sisters took down an entire roomful of people without breaking a sweat in the heart of Diagon Alley. They'd be practically unstoppable in a place where they have the home-field advantage."

"Despite our names being disgraced, we still hold considerable power in the Wizarding World, Draco. Never forget that, by right of birth, we have seats upon the Wizengamot." Theo's voice was low and calculating, but the point he made was anything but.

The world may be content to throw them into the filth, but the scions of each of their noble houses each occupied a seat upon the Wizengamot. Their positions as members of the Circle of Nobles gave them that right – even if they had only recently come into that power following their parents' respective incarcerations and demises. Whereas his mother had held his seat in a position of _locum tenens,_ Theo had claimed his from the outset, establishing himself into the hierarchy of the Pureblood community from the very beginning.

"There aren't enough of us to hold any sort of sway should things go awry," noted Blaise, shifting in his seat, an expression of slight discomfort on his face. "I for one don't even hold a seat on that panel, regardless of my lineage."

"Blaise, honey, that's because you're foreign," pointed out Pansy, "Whereas the rest of us have names that predate the Wizengamot itself in this country."

"It doesn't matter how much political power we have." He sighed, weary of the discussion already. "We need to get my mother out of there without causing an incident – most of us are still on probation for supporting Voldemort. If a fight breaks out, we're doomed to Azkaban, the lot of us, and that's only if we survive long enough for the Aurors to show up."

"Why didn't I think of that," muttered Luna, and when all eyes turned to her, she continued, eyes blazing.

"We can't go to the Aurors," his girlfriend noted, her voice as serene as ever. "There's no telling how far the Grey's influence extends, especially now that Padma and Terry have confirmed that there's a mole. But, once we're there, and if we kick up enough of a fuss . . . the Aurors will have to show up."

"That's one hell of a gamble." Pansy pursed her lips, her appearance troubled.

Draco, though, ignored them, the wheels of his mind spinning so fast he was surprised he did not hear them whirring in his ears. The plan had merit, but the risk was greater than anything he'd ever considered. It was strange for him to consider having to rely on an outside force to act as the cavalry, and harder when he realized that the people would probably be the last people on the earth who'd willingly come to his aid.

Still, at this point, there were very few options left to them, and just as he weighed the pros and cons of Luna's plan, he came to a startling conclusion.

"There is one Auror we can count on," he said, "One who has few scruples with going against the rules in order to get the job done. If we have her on our side, it'll make all the difference in the world, and who knows, we may well be rid of the Gemini Sisters in the end."

"And who, pray tell, is this white knight you've neglected to mention in all our previous discussions?" snapped Pansy.

"My cousin, Rhea Pierce."

 **.o0o.**

With a soft groan, George slumped to the ground, his back resting against the counter. It had been a long day, and he had spent most of it eagerly awaiting the last of his customers to pay for their purchases and leave. To be honest, the store had been much busier in the days before the war had begun in earnest, but in that not so distant past, he had always had Fred to help lighten to load.

The truth, he realized as he flicked his wand to lock the front door, was that he and his twin had never come up with a plan for having to go at it alone. It had never been a concern for them, because whilst they had always feared to lose the members of their family, neither had truly considered losing each other. From the very beginning, right from the time of their conception, they had been together, one person split into two, and to consider losing one was simply something neither had anticipated.

It made the struggles of everyday life that much harder for him, more so than the loss of his ear. Sure, he found his coordination and general balance had been shot to hell by that particular loss, but the loss of his twin reflected itself into all facets of his life, from cooking breakfast in the mornings – Fred had always been able to fry the bacon just right – to balancing the books of the business – Fred had always had the better head for numbers, after all.

He sighed. It would not do for him to mope about, not now that he had made so much progress in the recent months. Preparing to go upstairs and shower before returning to tidy the shelves, he caught a glimpse of Angelina appearing out of thin air just outside the glass windows. Flicking his wand to open the door, he felt a smile tease across his face.

"What on earth are you doing down there?" she asked as she stepped into the store, raising an eyebrow as she clipped the door behind her with her heel. Before he could respond, there was a loud thud, which was closely followed by a sharp yelp.

"Does nobody ever watch their surroundings before opening and closing doors," complained Percy, sporting a reddening blemish on his brow. George snickered, noticing that Angelina had pressed a hand against her mouth, her cheeks quivering with suppressed laughter, and had it not been for the appearance of his next guest, he would have guffawed there and then.

She was a brunette witch with pale skin and a veritable army of freckles, and she stood at just a few inches below Percy in height. Gears whirring in his brain, he realized with a start that this must be the enigmatic Audrey he's heard so much about.

"Angelina," exclaimed the brunette, and George frowned as the women hugged. It seemed somewhat odd that she'd have never mentioned knowing his brother's girlfriend, but before he could voice his opinions, Percy was speaking,

"George, this is Audrey, my girlfriend." His older brother's eyes flashed briefly, an obvious warning for him to be on his best behaviour, and to his surprise, he found that he hadn't even considered pulling a prank or making a joke at this point.

Perhaps, it was the sensation of pride and warmth that came with the understanding that Percy, the most secretive of his siblings in terms of romance, had decided he should be the first in the family to meet his girlfriend. In a moment of clarity, he came to the realization that since his twin's passing, the brother he'd become closest to was the brother he'd originally been the most distant from.

Life worked in mysterious ways, he reckoned, extending a hand to shake Audrey's as his guests seemed to weigh their options before joining him on the floor. He didn't know why they were being so picky – it was quite comfortable and he'd swept it just that morning.

After a few minutes of polite conversation, his fingers woven into Angelina's in a manner that felt all too natural, he asked the question that had been on his mind since first finding out his brother had gotten himself a girlfriend – as far as he knew, Percy had never really learned how to flirt.

"How did you two meet?"

"I introduced them." Angelina shrugged, her voice tinged with the slightest touch of amusement. "Though, I never expected them to start dating."

"There's nothing more romantic than harbouring a fugitive," said Audrey, grinning, and Percy simply shook his head, similarly tickled by what was looking to be an inside joke, which to George's horror, he was excluded from. It was as if the world had turned on its head, to be honest, because in which universe did Percy of all people laugh at something that he was clueless too.

"I don't understand," he groused.

"Well, I'm a Muggle-born," Audrey explained, "and I didn't turn myself over to the Registration Committee during the war. When the Ministry came calling, I chose to keep my wand and go on the run."

"Percy and I usually had our lunch breaks at the same time and he was growing pretty disillusioned at that point, so we got to talking, and when Audrey needed a place to lay low, I sent her to Percy," added Angelina.

"And the rest, shall we say, is history." Percy smiled, a fond look in his eyes as he slung an arm around Audrey's shoulders, shifting slightly to allow her to lay her head on his shoulder.

It was a romantic story, George had to admit, and did seem plausible and more along the lines of something Percy would do. Over the past few months, he'd learned many things about his brother that he hadn't previously known in the past, and it was becoming easier and easier to realize why the Sorting Hat had put him in Gryffindor.

Percy possessed a quieter bravery than the rest of them and was neither brash nor bold in his actions. His courage, nevertheless, was no lesser than theirs, as evidenced by this latest story. Something, however, didn't seem quite right about their rendition of events, and although it took him a minute, he figured it out soon enough.

"But, how did you know Angelina?" he interrupted, not noticing how the witch beside shifted.

"She's a Healer assigned to the apothecary in St. Mungo's, George," replied Angelina, discomfort evident in her tone. "You know I have to, you know."

"Your potion," he said in understanding and instantly regretted bringing up the subject. It was a sore point with his sort-off girlfriend, and naturally, he had to wave off the look of curiosity on Percy's face. There was no point in informing him of Angelina's condition, especially since Audrey would probably confide in her boyfriend in private. Her haemophilia was manageable, normally, with a few simple charms to keep her skin from breaking . . . but as a girl, some bleeding was unavoidable, hence the need for her weekly plasma potions.

It took a while for the awkwardness to dissipate, but soon enough, the conversation had strayed to more neutral topics, and George found it harder and harder to remain on his best behaviour.

 **.o0o.**

Harry wondered if Rhea had ever obtained the necessary authorisation to perform an Undetectable Extension Charm on her home so as to create this cell. Probably not, he reasoned, considering that the process was a long and arduous one and that there would be regular visitations from the Ministry to ensure that the purpose of the charm was within the limits of the Statue of Secrecy's limitations.

It was a rare moment for him to be able to think in such a rational manner, and he felt a pang at the notion. He'd spent so many months of his life being numb to the goings on in the world . . . he'd forgotten what it was like to be able to function without the influence of his potions.

What had he done?

There was a time when the entire world would have fallen to their knees at his feet. Now, how could he look them in the eye when faced with the enormity of his own transgressions? He'd burned his bridges, every last one of them, and now that he was confronted by the knowledge, he knew that he only had himself to blame.

He'd blamed Rebekah Erilson in the beginning. She'd been the one to set him on a dangerous path. Then, he'd blamed Amber and her lifestyle, and last but not least, he'd found himself blaming Ginny for abandoning him at a time when he needed her most. He'd found fault in Hermione for not being there as she always had, and in Ron for moving on with his life as though nothing had happened.

Nevertheless, he knew now that it was him that should be held accountable.

Yet, it had been him alone who had borne that terrible burden following the end of the war. It had for him that so many had died, and whilst the rational part of his mind argued that people would have died anyway, he couldn't absolve himself of his mistake.

The day his mother had given birth to him, she had signed her own death warrant. From that day on, the people he loved had died, each and every one of them slain for daring to stand between him and Voldemort. Sirius had come to the Ministry to protect him. Tonks? Remus? Fred? They'd been at Hogwarts that night because he'd been the one to call them to arms.

It wasn't rational, he knew that much, but it was true.

The door creaked open.

Instantly, he was on his feet, scrabbling for a wand that wasn't there. Wild-eyed, he backed away till his back was pressed against the wall, his trembling hands clenched into fists. His recent spiral may have robbed him of much of the strength he'd gained in training, but he was certain he could still pack a wicked right hook.

"Merlin," Ron swore, eyes widened in obvious disbelief. Harry snorted, letting his hands fall to his sides, and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. There may have been no mirrors in this room, but he could well imagine what he looked like after his weeks of confinement. To be honest, he'd done a number on himself in the months leading up to Rhea hauling him to her apartment, but he would have been a fool to expect rehabilitation to do his appearance any wonders.

Abruptly, he ran a hand through the shaggy bird's nest he called hair and looked away. There was an air of confidence about his best mate – as if he still had a right to call Ron that – that hadn't been there when last they'd met.

Idly, his eyes flickered to the open doorway. Freedom, he thought, a way out of this hellhole. He hesitated, he was unarmed and even with what little wandless magic remained to him, Ron would rip him to shreds in his current condition.

He doubted he'd be able to hold his own against a first year, to be painfully honest.

"Now that we've covered the fact that I look like hell smothered in batshit, why're you here, Ron?" he asked when it became apparent that the other man was at a loss for words.

Ron shrugged, looking pained, and then replied, "I thought I'd check up on you. Rhea's an amazing Auror, a fantastic leader, and one hell of a woman . . . but she's absolute crap at being a host."

He couldn't help the cry of mirth that escaped his lips, and before he knew it, he was laughing in a way that he hadn't in months. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, and it flowed as though someone had knocked down the dam. Ron stared at him as though he had gone mad, and perhaps he had, but there was no stopping now.

He laughed, and soon enough, he'd doubled over, clutching at his aching ribs as he half guffawed, half coughed, tears streaming from his eyes until his best mate had slung an arm beneath his shoulders and escorted him to his makeshift bed.

"What the hell, mate?" asked Ron, emphatically clapping a hand on his back as he choked, the tears tightening his throat even as a final few breaths of laughter struggled to break through. "Are you still high or something?"

"Would you believe me if I said I'm just glad to see you again?"

"Sure, let's go with that." Ron chuckled. It was a good sound, one he'd thought he'd never hear again considering everything he'd inflicted upon the Weasleys in the past year. "How're you feeling?"

He frowned. How was he feeling? Guilty, for one, but he couldn't very well admit that without having to dredge up the reasons for that particular emotion, and frankly, he didn't think he was ready to relive his epiphany. He felt sore; his body was still coping with having been purged and then denied the potions that had kept him going for so long, but that much would be obvious to anyone who looked.

The he looked up and saw that Ron wasn't staring at him with pity, or anger, or anything of the sort. Instead, there was concern in the other man's eyes, and in the end, that was all it took to remove the last of his reservations.

"Why'd you come here, Ron? Why're you trying to help me after all the shit I pulled this year?"

"Well, other than the fact that you've forgiven me for worse, the truth is that friends don't give up on friends."

 **.o0o.**

She hesitated at the door.

It had been a long year for her, and she questioned whether she had the strength to face them after the way she'd left things with them. Sure, there had been no hard feelings when she'd first taken leave, but the wound had still been fresh at that point in time. She knew better than most that cuts, however small, could fester and become infected in time.

Had the wounds she'd left in her wake grown diseased by the stains of time?

She remembered, full well, that despite what she'd said to Ron, she had never planned on returning to Britain. Harry had known – he knew her too well for her to hide her plans, he was practically a brother to her at this point – and he had watched her walk out the front door with a solemn expression on his face and tears in his eyes.

Her life in Britain had been over, she'd thought, and she'd wanted to start afresh with her family in Australia. It was better had she not hoped so hard because the disappointment had been almost as crushing as the pain.

It was funny how fighting through a war could keep you alive, whilst living through the peace could take you down without a fight.

Swallowing, she clenched her fist and opened the door.

The room was dark, save for the dull glare given off by the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In contrast to the rest of Rhea's immaculate apartment, this looked more like a prison cell than a room of rehabilitation. A shiver ran down her spine as a stray thought crossed her mind – why had Rhea Pierce even created a room?

How many prisoners had been held here, off the books, before Harry had been locked in?

"Hermione?" She looked up at the sound of her name, spoken in a strained, almost-choked voice, and she flinched. Ron looked well; if anything he appeared to be better than ever . . . but Harry was another story altogether. His hair was long and wild, a tangled black mess which fell past his shoulders, and his eyes were bloodshot. Hollowed cheeks and skinny limbs, he looked like Death itself was leaning on his shoulder.

"In the flesh," she whispered and gasped when she was nearly bowled over by the force of Ron's embrace. Before she could recover, Harry was on her, and this time, she did lose her balance.

She never fell, though. The boys clung to her, keeping her steady, and she was vaguely aware that she was crying. Her arms reached out to envelop them both, and a fluttering candle of warmth blossomed within her. It was odd – she'd felt nothing but cold for so very long, and now, this strange feeling was taking hold.

It took her a minute to recognise the sensation, but when she did, there was no turning back.

It felt like home.

Hours later, she found herself sitting against a wall with her arms crossed, a watery smile on her cheeks. The stories had been told, the demons laid bare to the rest of the world, and yet there was no hatred or scorn in their eyes for what her actions had caused. Instead, there was sympathy and sorrow. Harry reached out to place a hand on her knee, and Ron slung an arm around her shoulders, and she sighed.

There was no judgement. There was just forgiveness and concern. She missed the feeling. She had missed them.

In the silent moments when the earth held still; when the very breeze would slow till it was virtually non-existent, when she'd found it so difficult to so much as breathe, it had been their faces she had thought off. Even half-a-world away, Ron and Harry had helped her where nobody, not even Shawn, could, and that what with her memories, those imprints in her mind of the times they had shared, the lives they had touched, and the things they had achieved.

"Do you remember that night, all those years ago, when the three of us became a team?" Harry asked, a soft smile crossing his gaunt face.

"Troll!" yelled Ron, "Troll in the dungeon!" Harry guffawed, clutching at his stomach as he doubled over, and the memories came flooding back to her. It was the day her life had changed, both for the better and for the worse, the day two scrawny eleven-year-old gits who'd teased and heckled her to tears had rescued her from a mountain troll.

It had been in a girl's bathroom.

There had been a troll trying to kill her in a girl's bathroom at her school, and it was the absurdity of the recollection that finally brought down the first of her walls. The biting chill that plagued her seemed to abate, if only a little, but it was a start.

They said that healing lay in what one held closest to their hearts, and for her, she realised, it was the two of them. Ron and Harry, the lights that had burned whenever her world had been at its darkest . . . how could she have been so selfish to think that it had been her that had been burned out the most for knowing them?

They had protected the Philosopher's Stone. They had saved their school from a thousand-year-old serpent. They'd gone back in time to save two lives, and they'd seen the rise and fall of a Dark Lord.

Throughout it all, Hermione realised, they had all burned bridges and made sacrifices. They had done it together. With shocking clarity, she understood, and even though the grief of losing her parents still constricted her heart, in that moment she knew that they would always do it together.

Hermione smiled, for the first time in what felt like years, and she reached out to take each of their hands in her own. A tear ran down her cheek as she contemplated the pair of them, and then, even as a few fragments of the weight upon her shoulders began to crumble away, she said,

"We became more than a team. We became a family."

 **.o0o.**

 **In the next chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _Padma, Terry," he exclaimed, his eyes never moving from the parchment before him. "I think I know who the mole is."_

 _It had been right in front of them the entire time, in the form of the ultimate masquerade. A person they had thought to trust, someone with more than enough access to anything the Greys would need._

" _Who?" asked Terry, fingering his wand, his eyes snapping back and forth._

 _The words left Ron's lips like a curse, but the dawning horror on his friends' faces was nothing compared to the slivers of ice spreading across his back at the sound of a very familiar voice filling the air. He didn't need to turn around to know who was standing in the door, because even as the parchment slipped from his grasp, the words echoed in his ears._

" _Very clever, Mister Weasley."_


	17. Recollections

**Lovers and Liars**

 **Recollections**

.o0o.

"Bangers and mash? How English do they think we are?" George chuckled, scanning the menu.

Going on a double-date to dinner was hardly the sort of thing he'd have ever imagined himself as doing, and yet, there was no denying that it was a refreshing change to simply go out and enjoy himself rather than remain cooped up in his shop worrying about his family. With Percy sitting beside him, an amused look on his face at the earlier joke, and Audrey and Angelina sitting across from them, it was an almost normal night.

He'd needed this more than he'd known, he realised, as he looked up to see the girls giggling to each other over some private joke. It was nice to act, if only for a single night, that he was a typical twenty-year-old wizard with not a care in the world other than maintaining a relationship and doing well with his job, as opposed to the usual state of mortal peril which accompanied being a Weasley these days.

Of course, he'd have much rather gone somewhere a bit more lively and youthful, such as that new Wizarding nightclub all his customers loved to rave about, but the idea of forcing Percy into such a place had seemed downright cruel. Still, the food smelled good, judging by the savoury scents wafting their way out the kitchen, and the chocolate cake on the neighbouring table looked downright decadent.

Now, more than ever, he found himself appreciative of the fact that he'd gotten rid of his beer belly, because it meant he could tuck into such a rich cake without feeling guilty.

"May I take your order?" asked their waiter, a lively young blond who appeared to be having the time of his life. Considering his job and the pink flush to his cheeks, George was inclined to think he'd been at the wine.

Nothing wrong with that, though, since he personally kept a bottle of Firewhisky under the counter at his shop for when the customers got to be a bit too much – indeed, he kept a bright-green plastic cup just so he could sip the stuff without arousing suspicion.

"I'll have the steak," said Angelina.

"The fish and chips," he added as Percy and Audrey gave their choices. Concluding the order with a bottle of red wine for the table, Audrey turned back to them and asked,

"How's business going, George?"

"Fairly well, I'd say. It's still the school holidays, though, so I'm getting plenty of kids stopping by to stock up for the new term. Don't know what it's going to be like once they all go back to Hogwarts though."

"What about the factory?" asked Percy.

"Well, the contracts and stuff were signed before Narcissa got 'napped, so it's almost ready to start producing. It's been a nightmare making everything by hand."

"Tell me about it. I stopped by to visit last night, and wound up helping him enchant a new batch of Decoy Detonators." Angelina chuckled. He grinned at her, not noticing the conversation had shifted until his mind latched onto the words, _treating memory-loss_.

"Say again?" he asked, curious about the new topic.

"The Swedes are experimenting with a new method of treating patients with amnesia," Audrey repeated, "I was just telling Percy that it may help your sister, since nothing else you've turned up is."

George nodded, understanding, wordlessly urging her to continue.

"Well, it's not really fool-proof, but they claim that by injecting the memories of another into the mind of someone who's lost their own, the mind is triggered into filling in the blanks and recuperating from the trauma."

The conversation went on, with George making a mental note to inform his sister of the procedure, until at last the food arrived and a lighter subject was broached. Laughing along with the rest of them, he found himself enjoying the night out, especially when the chocolate cake was later brought to his table.

It was, indeed, as delicious as it looked, and later, as he left the restaurant with Angelina after bidding his brother and Audrey a goodnight, he found himself feeling a little braver than usual. Of course, he always thought of himself as rather bold, but there were some things that always gave him the feeling of cold feet.

In this case, it was the thought of finally manning up and making a move on Angelina, because as much as he enjoyed her company, he was beginning to want more than just being her close friend and almost-boyfriend.

The wine, though, seemed to have been a shade stronger than he had expected, and he had drunk quite a bit of it. The night was rather quiet, and with one hand closed around the handle of his wand, he linked the other with hers. Breath misting slightly in the cold air, he glanced to discern her reaction, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief upon catching sight of her smile.

They walked in silence until they reached the Cauldron, at which point, when she made to hug him goodbye, he asked,

"Would you like to come up to the shop for a bit more wine?"

He could have sworn that her cheeks, tan as they were, grew a little pinker as she agreed, and with that, they found themselves walking, hands clasped together, through Diagon Alley. It was a little odd to be so quiet, especially when the silence didn't seem awkward in the least, and once they were safely ensconced in the warmth of his flat, he said,

"I don't really have any wine."

"I didn't think you did," she replied as she shrugged out of her coat. He didn't know what came over him in that moment, and later, he would attribute it to his Gryffindor courage, but he yanked her forward and pressed his lips to hers. Eyes falling shut, he kissed her, his tongue slipping past her parted lips.

It was a sweet kiss – quite unlike the others he had given and received during his Hogwarts years, where teenage passion had led to them being quite sloppy and unrestrained. Instead, this kiss was gentle and longing, and even as he felt a pair of hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, or when his own were fumbling with the clasp of her bra, he couldn't shake the feeling that being with Angelina just felt right.

.o0o.

It was a pleasant morning. Sipping on a cup of coffee, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. He'd been cooped up within the confines of the Rook for far too long, and he had been beginning to think that cabin fever was setting in. The fact that Luna's abode was also home to an increasingly temperamental Granger only made the solitude greater, especially when he was alone with her.

For some reason, she seemed to hold him solely responsible for all the wrongdoings of the Death Eaters during the war, something which he felt was incredibly unfair. Whilst he did understand that she was grieving – the full details as to why were not yet forthcoming – and that he was the only thing near enough for her to blame, it made for a very uncomfortable living arrangement.

He sighed, awaiting his cousin's arrival. Really, the woman was supposed to have been an Auror – which was generally meant to imply punctuality – so it boggled him as to why she was already fifteen minutes late. Perhaps Weasley had accidently set something on fire at the Auror Office, he reasoned, for that sounded like the only logical reason as to her lateness.

Just as he had begun contemplating having Luna send her a patronus message, he paused, noting a familiar face in the milling crowd outside the coffee-shop. Her dark clothing standing in stark contrast to the rest of the pedestrians, she approached with a somewhat harangued look on her face.

"The usual, Kelly." He heard her call as she entered the coffee-shop. The barista nodded, and Rhea marched towards his table, her expression incredulous.

"You shouldn't be in public without an escort after what happened to your mother," said Rhea as she settled into the chair across the small table.

"Who said I'm alone?" replied Draco with a grin, gesturing to the surrounding tables. In a corner-booth sat Pansy and Blaise, whilst Luna sipped her coffee upon a stool next to the counter, and Theo pretended to read the paper near the front windows.

"Yes, I'm positively terrified of the four teenagers you've brought as back-up," she said, rolling her eyes. She reached across the table to clap him on his shoulder, favouring him with a light smile as she added, "It's good to see you again, kid."

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" he asked.

"The Tri-Wizard Tournament, if I remember correctly. You were a scrawny git back then, if I remember correctly."

He laughed, remembering the antics he had gotten up to in his Fourth-Year. It had been a more innocent time, when taking pranks too far had been the most malevolent of his crimes, and when Granger punching him in the face had been the most painful thing he'd endured. The days had been happier, his friends had smiled and grinned more often, and all in all, it felt as though it had been a dream.

War did that to a person, he reasoned, and she seemed to have reached a similar conclusion, if her expression was anything to go by.

"Why'd you call me here, Draco?" she asked, "If it's about the case, there've been no new developments."

He paused before replying, considering his options. Putting his trust in the wrong person could be fatal to their cause, but at the same time, this was Rhea – and his mother was her family too. There were many things in the world that he doubted, but one of the few concepts he was certain off was that a Pierce always put family above duty. It was their family motto, the creed by which they were raised and lived by, and that was a rare commodity in this world.

"We know where they're holding my mother, and we need the Aurors to back us up when we get there."

The words hung heavy in the air between them, and he could see that he'd caught her by surprise. She'd obviously been expecting something, anything, other than what he'd said – but she'd nonetheless taken it in stride, and he could already see the gears in her mind begin to whir.

"Playing the role of a vigilante is a dangerous gambit, Draco," she said, finally. "There are, quite literally, a million things that could go wrong with your plan."

"Would you rather I give you the location so your boss and the rest of his Pureblood hating minions can storm the place, inevitably turning my mother into just another casualty?" If his voice was bitter, he could not be bothered less, for it was the plain truth of the matter. There was no equality in the world, no matter how much the Ministry preached it – instead, there was more hatred and prejudice against the Pureblood aristocracy than there had ever been.

Pierce, despite not being involved with the Death Eaters during the war, had obviously faced some of the same backlash as he had, Pureblood that she was. When she nodded for him to continue, he outlined the plan, her expression growing more and more troubled until she rose to her feet with a sigh.

"I suppose if you are this dead set on your fool plan, there's nothing I can do to stop you. I'll do what I can to bring in the Aurors once you have Narcissa, and if it comes to it, you can count on Zeph's support on the Wizengamot."

"Are you sure your brother will support us?"

"He's a Pierce. Of course he will."

.o0o.

"Padma, Terry," he exclaimed, his eyes never moving from the parchment before him. "I think I know who the mole is."

It had been right in front of them the entire time, in the form of the ultimate masquerade. A person they had thought to trust, someone with more than enough access to anything the Greys would need.

"Who?" asked Terry, fingering his wand, his eyes snapping back and forth.

The words left Ron's lips like a curse, but the dawning horror on his friends' faces was nothing compared to the slivers of ice spreading across his back at the sound of a very familiar voice filling the air. He didn't need to turn around to know who was standing in the door, because even as the parchment slipped from his grasp, the words echoed in his ears.

"Very clever, Mister Weasley."

The mole strode into the office with his wand trained on the three of them, a twisted leer on his face. Ron, instinctively, stepped to the side so he was standing in front of the two Ravenclaws, hoping that Padma would take the hint and take advantage of the fact that he was obscuring her from view to go for her wand. His own lay on his desk, too far away for him to reach, and he mentally kicked himself for not keeping it in its holster.

"Robards," accused Terry, stepping up to stand behind Ron – though the redhead assumed this was more a move to shield his girlfriend lest things turn ugly, which they no doubt would, from harm. "I'd have thought you above such clichés."

The Head Auror ignored him, keeping his wand trained upon him, before he said, "I confess, I'm quite glad that you three are the ones who've found me out. Three inept trainees – haven't even passed their NEWTs. Nobody's going to question a backfired curse that destroys their office and kills them all. And it'll take all the evidence with it."

"There are three of us and one of you," retorted Ron, his fingers closing around the letter-opener on Padma's desk. It had been a gift from her father, he remembered, and as much as he'd hate to get blood on the sandalwood, it was the only weapon within reach. He'd just have to apologise to her after.

"There were several dozen of you at that party and just one Grey, and yet, she had the whole lot of you squealing like pigs," countered Robards, rolling his eyes. "Now, if it were Shacklebolt or Pierce who'd found that bit of parchment, well, then it would be different."

"How so?" said a much colder voice from the doorway, and Ron felt a grin break out across his face as Rhea entered the room, her wand held aloft. "For a spy who avoided detection for so long, Gawain, you're surprisingly inept. Loitering around for so long instead of just killing them – then again, you always did have a thing for melodrama."

Robards' leer fell, replaced with a brief look of uncertainty before he whirled around to face her, flicking his free hand behind him to send the trio sprawling across the ground with a silent, yet powerful, display of wandless magic.

"Stand back, guys. This is a fight between Aurors," said Rhea, eyes flashing as she drew her wand and stepped forward. "Tell me, Gawain," she added in a voice laced with ferocity, "What was it that made you betray us?"

Robards remained silent, jaw set, and before another word could be uttered, he slashed his wand through the air. A crackling jet of blue light flashed through the air, only to be deflected by Rhea, who moved with a swiftness that Ron had rarely seen before. A tongue of flame burst from her wand, and Ron stumbled as Padma shoved him into a corner of the room, flicking her wand to erect a shield charm around the three of them.

The flames were blasted to smoke by Robards, which solidified into a dozen razor-sharp shards of ice. Rhea ducked aside, making a stabbing motion with her wand, only to blast a hole in the wall as Robards weaved to the left. A desk went hurtling through the air, reduced to ash in a second, and then the enchanted windows shattered, glass pieces swirling around the air like blood-thirsty gnats.

It was like being in the centre of the vortex, the air charged with static as their spells rebounded and collided, filling the room with sparks and flashes of light, each reflected of the spiralling glass. Robards howled, clutching at his cheek as a jagged shard buried itself into his cheek, but before Rhea could take advantage, she doubled over, an iron-sphere slamming into her gut.

Robards steadied himself and before Rhea could recover, he had uttered a curse and she went flying, slamming bodily against a desk and going spinning over it. Coughing, she rose to her feet, and forced the desk and chair across the room with a spell, catching her breath as Robards blasted it aside.

"I have wanted to do this for years," he growled, as a shrieking stream of light exploded from the tip of his wand. Rhea's eyes widened, but she darted aside and, waving her arm, directed the glass shards against her foe.

The intensity of Robard's shield charm was such that the glass disintegrated on impact, falling around him like fine powder, a dusting of snow, and it was then that Terry let out a cry of triumph from beside Ron.

Ron grinned, realising what was about to happen a mere second before Rhea shrieked, " _Incisura."_

The arc of purple light cut through the air, and Robards, still blinded by the glassy-dust, never saw it coming. He forced his eyes open as it caught him in the throat, his eyes quickly growing bloodshot as the powdered-glass found their way into them, and took a step forward.

"You bi–"

He never finished the sentence, a slender line of red spread across his neck, before his head rolled off his shoulders, and his body slumped to the ground. Rhea coughed again, leaning against the closed door, and would have fallen to her knees had Ron not caught her in his arms.

"You're pretty badass when you want to be," he said, gasping for breath as the dust began to settle.

A faint smirk spread across her lips and inclining her head to face him, she said, "Are you just realising that now?"

.o0o.

"We have done terrible things, haven't we, Harry?" she asked, her eyes fixed onto the Muggle street below. The tiny window didn't offer much of a view, but Rhea Pierce had insisted Harry remain in confinement for the next week. The drugs may be purged from his system, but they needed to be sure that the cravings had faded as well, lest he suffer a relapse.

Much as she hated seeing him like this, she could tell that he hated himself more. She didn't blame him, though. Like her, it had only been a matter of time until he'd crumbled, but she'd had Shawn to hold her up in the aftermath of the war – whilst Harry had just turned in on himself, slowly eating away at his own support systems.

What had become of the two of them over the years? The war had broken them both, and it had taken over a year for them to even contemplate putting themselves back together.

"We never meant for this to happen," he answered, sitting cross-legged on the bed. The response struck her. He didn't know, how could he, when she had never told him – told anyone but Luna what had transpired in Australia. He may have suffered, but at the very least he didn't have the blood of those he loved on his hands.

For him, Voldemort had always been the one to blame for losing those he cared for. When it came to her, though, the charm that had driven both her parents to suicide had been one of her own design. Her father, with a power drill to his skull, and her mother, just days after they'd been reunited, had slashed open her wrists.

It had been her fault, and she had nobody but herself to blame.

"Hermione?" he asked, "What's wrong?"

It was only then that she realised he was able to see her tears in the weak reflection of the window, and that he, who knew her so well, could always tell when something was wrong. She hated him in that moment for seeing her weakness, for seeing her without her impassive facades in place, but at the same time the hate didn't come close to eclipsing the love she felt for him.

It was a paradox, she knew, and she cursed herself for it. Still, she reasoned, even as the tears fell more freely, it may be easier for her to just tell him. Then, at least, he could hate her like she hated herself – like she deserved to be hated.

"I killed my parents," she whispered. With those words, it was as though the floodgates had opened, and the entire story spilled forth – she doubted she'd be able to stop if she tried. The truth was now out, and she felt a weight lift of her chest. When finally she was done, she clenched her fists and waited, lashes heavy with tears, and waited for his rage, his disgust, his blame.

Instead, she felt his skinny arms around her waist and murmur, ever so softly into her ear, that it was not her fault.

"Blame Voldemort, Hermione. Everything you did, everything, was to protect them from him. You are not to blame."

After what felt like hours, she let him guide her to the bed. Propping up her chin on her knees, she hugged herself around the legs, and looked at him through bloodshot eyes. A wan smile on her lips, she muttered, "thank you," and fell silent.

He was talking, but she didn't hear. As much as she accepted what he had told her, she couldn't, not deep down, because she had seen the results of her handiwork. It had been her fault, and though, with the forgiveness and strength her friends gave her, she could move on, she would never be able to forget.

She doubted she would ever be able to forgive herself.

"Does the pain ever stop? Do you ever get over it?"

He paused in whatever it was that he was saying, a tight smile on his face as he sat next to her. Taking her hand in his, he offered her his shoulder as a headrest, and answered, "You get over the loss of a broomstick or a wand. But a loved one? They'll stay with you forever, and you'll never get over – the only thing you can do is get through."

She remained silent, her eyes closed as she leaned against him. It was a lovely sentiment, as well as a harsh truth, and it made her wonder when Harry had grown so wise. Perhaps it was from the experiences of his own losses, of having to cope with the pain of saying goodbye to the people he loved, but it did make her feel better.

For that she was grateful.

"It helps when you love someone," he added, in a lighter tone. "You can move past almost anything with the right person at your side."

"Have you ever loved someone like that?" she asked.

"Only Ginny," he responded, voice wistful and honest in equal measure. "What about you, Hermione?"

She thought about his question, hard, and finally she replied. Her voice was cool, her tone impassive, but she meant everything she said, and even as he recoiled in surprise, she knew she had spoken the truth.

"I could never love like that. I just don't deserve it."

.o0o.

She lay back in her hospital bed, eyes narrowed, shivering as the chill air permeated her hospital gown. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and she wondered – not for the first time – why people in hospitals had to wear such flimsy gowns. For one thing, it provided little to no relief against the cold, and for another, it barely covered anything.

"How are you feeling, dear?" asked her mother, resting a soft palm against her arm. Ginny sighed, not wanting to voice her complaints, and simply nodded that she was fine. It could be worse, she reasoned, and the mild discomfort she was experiencing was not worth seeing the tentative smile fall from her mother's face.

She may not remember the details, but Fleur had, hesitantly, filled in enough of the gaps for her to understand precisely why the past two years were better left forgotten. The knowledge that Fred . . . that she'd never see him again, stung at her heart, and threatened to overwhelm her if she let it.

No, she couldn't. Not now, at any rate. There would be time to grieve later, and right now, all that she needed to do was focus on recovering the memories she had lost. It was difficult, to be honest, but she figured that the greatest service she could do to her late brother's memory was to get better.

It had helped that the news had hit her less like a stab to the gut, and more like a bandage being ripped off a barely-healed wound. The emotions were still there, she realised, as was the grief of her mourning . . . it was just hidden from her, sealed away by the Greys' curse.

"I need to remind you, Ginevra," said the Healer, "That this is still an experimental procedure. It could go very, very wrong. Are you sure you want to grow through with this?"

Beside him, Bill tensed, his knuckles white against the railing of her bed, and Fleur looked pale as she wrapped an arm around him. Percy was there, his expression seeming to have been carved from stone, and even George looked concerned, no trace of humour lighting his face. Ron was pacing, arms folded, and her father stood behind her mother, one hand on her shoulder.

It was a grim sight, and she closed her eyes to avoid looking at them, because she knew what she needed to do. To her, the risks were worth the rewards, and even though they'd asked her to wait, just hold off on the procedure till more tests could be done, her mind had already been made up.

"I'm ready," she whispered, and the sounds of footsteps filled the room. A hand lifted up her head, exposing her throat, and another person began pulling her hair out of the way to allow access to her temples. She bit her lip, a tinny voice within her begging for her to reconsider, but she silenced it with a thought and swallowed.

The first strand of memory felt like a sliver of ice as it dragged across her cheek, gossamer strands trickling at her skin. Then the tip of a wand prodded at her temple, and she gasped, eyes flaring open as the strand slipped in. It felt as though acid had been poured onto the gaping hole in her mind, that raw gash where the past two years had been stored, and her eyes watered as the memory tumbled around trying to find the place in which it fit.

 _The curse missed her by an inch, and then her mother screamed, racing to take her place in the duel._

" _Not my daughter, you bitch!"_

"Go on," she stammered, gasping for breath, "Don't stop. Give me the rest."

The second memory was warmer than the first, but still frigid to the touch, and as it crashed through her mind, she could already see that the Healers were preparing the next. She gritted her teeth and forced her eyes shut, her skin growing clammy as sweat broke out across her body. There was no stopping now, she knew, and she had survived worse.

The recollections hit her like a sledgehammer, a garbled series of recollections that melded together in a single stream of scenes, flashing past her eyes as she struggled to make sense of it all.

" _I'm holey, Fred, geddit?"_

" _I was a fool! I was an idiot! I was a pompous prat! I was a – a –"_

" _You're still beautiful to me, William."_

" _Owe it all to a werewolf, name of Greyback. Hope to repay the favour some day."_

" _Stay in the Room of Requirement, Ginny."_

" _There's the silver-lining I've been waiting for."_

" _I hear something . . . Luna, Ginny, hide!"_

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

" _You bastard! I never wanted any of that!"_

" _I loved you! And you weren't there for me when I needed you the most!"_

" _I'm leaving for France, Ginny."_

She felt so cold, as though phantom fingers had dragged themselves across her brain, stabbing at the most sensitive of places and prying apart her soul. It was jarring, and the memories felt foreign, alien somehow, and even as they amalgamated into her own missing recollections, she could detect that they did not truly belong to her.

All of them – they were like falling through a Pensieve and observing a scene, rather than living it. They were not hers, not truly, but they helped her fill in the blanks, and she could already feel her own consciousness seep into the cracks to mend the damage. The gaping void was filling in, the memories fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, and she groaned, feeling for the first time the blossoming warmth dribbling from her nose.

Soaked in sweat, hair matted to her face, and with blood dribbling from her nose, she sat up in bed, her eyes opening to take in the room, and she said three words that held all the meaning in the world.

"I remember . . . everything."

* * *

 **In the Next Chapter of Lovers and Liars:**

" _Go to Britain, they said. It'll be fun they said," complained Blaise, taking Pansy's hand as they looked out over the moors. The Grey's hideout was somewhere here, cloaked by a spell of some sort, one they would no-doubt have to break._

" _Stop whining, honey, you sound worse than Daphne, and she's about to pop out a child any day now," retorted Pansy, though her voice wavered, showing her uncertainty._

" _Well then," said Draco, rolling his eyes at his friends. "Let's do this, shall we?"_


End file.
